


Victimized

by MyHeartIsOhMyGod



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 'cause it's gonna be, (probs 60k+ words), (sort of?), A LONG ASS RIDE, Actual plot, At least until the other one gives in 👀, Bullying, But it's not all dark i promise, Character Development, Culture Shock, Degradation, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, High School AU, I hope you're in it for the long run, Lots of love ❤, M/M, Manhandling, Minor Violence, No Blood, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, Some angst, Whipped, also a shit ton of love and affection, but no one gets bullied for their sexual orientation because that shit's not cool, but not for a while so calm down you horny kids, in a bully way but also a sexy way ;), some hard moments some soft moment, some internalized homophobia, we're gonna get the best of both worlds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyHeartIsOhMyGod/pseuds/MyHeartIsOhMyGod
Summary: Mark Lee is the perfect punching bag. He has great reactions, he never fights back, and he doesn’t know enough Korean to be able to tattle-tale. Yuta can’t help but take advantage.Push comes to shove. Teasing escalates to aggression. Gradually, the whole thing morphs into something more serious -more complicated- than just high school bullying.Mark knows there are only two ways this can go: Either Yuta will finally lose interest and leave him alone, or he’ll keep stretching Mark’s patience until it snaps....Yuta was never the type to back down from a challenge.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 81
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sunday, May 17th, 2020; 3:50am**
> 
> I haven’t posted anything on here since 2018. Wow. When I started university a few years ago, I had to exchange my hobbies for good grades, so the COVID quarantine has given me my first real break since I enrolled. Isn’t that crazy?
> 
> Quarantine has also given me time to discover and fall in love with NCT. I really adore the relationship that Yuta has with Mark. They’re obviously very close, and it’s interesting to see how their feelings developed over time: Yuta went from teasing and bullying the boy to proclaiming his unconditional love for him, like a cliché brought to life. I thought that surely there has to be one of those overdone ‘bully falls in love with his victim’ stories, but shockingly, there aren’t many stories for this ship at all! I realized that if I want more YuMark, I might have to write it myself… Alas, here we are.
> 
> A few disclaimers: I don’t know much about Korean culture or their education system or their language. I am trying hard to research everything, but if I make mistakes or accidentally stereotype, I apologize in advance! I’m trying my best. Please feel free to point out any mistakes in the comments.
> 
> Please note, this story will use multiple languages in dialogue because NCT knows, what, 10 different languages? Basically, any language that Mark has trouble understanding will be italicized. This will also include English that is heavily accented (since that is also a little difficult for Mark to understand). As the story develops, Korean dialogue will eventually just be presented in English (without translations in parentheses like this) to show that Mark understands the Korean right away rather than needing time to process it. You’ll see as we go.
> 
> Any non-English dialogue is produced by my good friend Google Translate, so if any Korean/Mandarin/Japanese/*insert language* is completely nonsensical, blame Google.

In some ways, high school in Korea is pretty similar to the ones in Canada. In other ways, it’s completely different.

Teenagers frame the halls on either side, chatting and laughing as they unload their bags into lockers; yeah, that part is the same. But the way the overheard snippets of their conversations bounce wordlessly through Mark’s brain… yeah, that’s _really different_.

This isn’t the first time Mark’s life has been uprooted – his dad will sometimes get transferred to a new city, or a new province, or apparently across the world now – but it’s the first time that he has ever felt so _alien_. It took over ten minutes just to communicate with the front office – “ _No, I’m not lost, I’m a student. Yes, here, at this school.”_ \- and all he could do was nod through the instructions the lady gave because he was too bashful to ask her to speak more slowly.

So now all he has is a print-out of his schedule and a sticky note with his locker combination. They didn’t have a map, so he’s forced to navigate with a pen-sketched layout of boxes with directions written in slanted hangul.

He wanders through the halls, eyes alternating between the vague scribbles on his map and the numbers plated onto the lockers. The halls here are more cramped than they were at his last school, and it’s really hard to see the locker numbers when there’s a student leaning on every other one.

He thinks he sees a locker plated with a 74 hidden between two girls, which is great because his sticky note has the number 81 written in blue ink. _But_. There’s a group of tall guys standing in front of the next row of lockers, laughing and shoving at each other. They’re completely blocking Mark’s view, and he’ll have to ask them to move so he can check the locker numbers. But like, uhh… they’re way bigger than him, and Mark’s Korean is kind of total shit. So like, communication is going to be… difficult. Yeah.

It’s a bit intimidating to turn his gaze up at them, and Mark hesitates. Part of him wants to keep walking because like, you never know, maybe his locker is in the next hall for some reason… but it seems unlikely. So, he clears his throat: “ _Sillyehabnida_.” (“Excuse me.”)

There’s a pause in their conversation. Six pairs of eyes turn to glare down at Mark, waiting for him to spit out whatever he bothered them for. Mark hands sweat as he stammers, “ _Nae… geos…_ ” He’s pretty sure that means _mine_ , but based on the lack of reaction, it fails to convey his message. He points at the lockers – or tries to, between the arms of the two guys in front of him – and adds, “ _Geugos-e_ ”, which he thinks means _there_. (He regrets having not taken Korean lessons more seriously as a kid.)

The closest guy frowns at him, follows the direction of his index, then turns back. The person next to him mumbles something. They snort and step to the side, giving Mark just enough room to access the locker behind them… which is number 79. _Fuck._

He awkwardly shifts to the left, announcing “ _Yeodeun han_ ” (“81”) because at least he learned how to count. But uhh, the guys look sort of annoyed from being squished all into one side, and Mark would _really_ rather not piss off people on his first day of school (especially when they’re way bigger than him).

He fumbles with the number-lock as quickly as he can, cursing when he screws it up once, then twice, and shoves his backpack into the space with more aggression than necessary. The sound of his zipper seems too loud as he pulls out a few pens and pencils (secured by an elastic because who needs a pencil case?), a blue binder, an eraser, and a calculator.

He hopes he’s not forgetting something important. Is there anything else he might need…? Mark takes a second or two to think about it, but as it often does, his mind goes blank. It’s probably fine, then... hopefully. With the binder balanced in his left hand and the map and schedule clutched within the other, he takes a step back into the stream of traffic.

The next few seconds feel like they happen in slow-motion: Mark shifts his weight onto his back foot, hears a stutter to his right, is turning his head in that direction when someone _crashes_ into his side.

“Oh shit!” Everything falls to the ground as some guy with red hair stumbles over him. Luckily Mark saves his own balance, and the other guy doesn’t even stop walking (though he might have cursed). But Mark can see him rotate his right shoulder like the impact hurt a little, and… fuck, Mark feels bad.

“Sorry!” he yells out. It might be a little too loud but the dude is already walking away and Mark wants to make sure he hears the apology.

The guy’s obnoxiously bright red hair is easy to keep track of in the bustle and Mark can see him look back over his shoulder. His brows crease like he’s confused but his mouth is curved into a smirk, as if Mark has just done the weirdest thing. And… shit, Mark yelled his apology in English, so, yeah, maybe he is kind of weird. Oops.

Mark sighs and picks his stuff off the floor. This time, he makes sure to check his blind spots before he merges back into the flow of students.

There’s a noticeable lull in the class chatter the moment that Mark steps into his new homeroom. All eyes turn towards him (i.e., the new kid) and Mark can’t help but gulp, ears flushing as their stares dissect him.

The class has a lot more students than the ones back in Canada – there’s probably, like, thirty-five kids crammed in here – which is actually super intimidating, wow. He tries to stay cool and collected and not at all self-conscious as he walks towards the only empty desk, squeezed awkwardly into the back row just for him, and waits for the volume to crescendo back to a steady murmur – even though now a lot of the conversations are probably about him.

Even though it’s not the first time Mark has been the new kid, he can never get used to the way people just stare at him so shamelessly. He feels like a complete outsider, his arbitrary mid-semester attendance feels like an intrusion. Mark takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this is basically the same as the schools in Canada: They’ll get over it within a few days, he just has to avoid their eyes and ignore the whispers. That’s all. This is fine.

In the past, when Mark transferred to a new school, the teacher would call him up to the front of the room and ask him to introduce himself. It was always super awkward, Mark would usually just stumble through his name and declare the city he moved from. Sometimes the teacher would toss a few more questions or ask him to list a fun fact about himself (spoiler alert, Mark doesn’t have many), but generally Mark would try to get it over with as soon as possible and sit back down.

Things are different in South Korea.

When the teacher walks into class, Mark closes his eyes and focuses on piecing his introduction together, so he’ll be ready for when he gets called up. He grabs his pen: _Nae ileum-eun Mark-ibnida._ (“My name is Mark.”) _Canada-eseo isahaessseubnida._ (“I moved here from Canada.”) _Naneun hangug-eoleul jal moshajiman_ (“I am not very at speaking Korean” – though Mark figures that’ll be obvious from his accent anyway), _uliga jal jinaegil balabnida_ (“but I hope we will get along”). He’s had these sentences memorized since his plane first touched down and regurgitates them basically everywhere he goes. It’s simple, it gets the message across, and it should suffice for that painful first-class introduction he always dreads.

But the teacher doesn’t call Mark up to the front.

She doesn’t ask him to introduce himself. She doesn’t prompt him for a fun fact. She dims the lights, boots up the smart board, and starts her lesson without ever acknowledging Mark’s presence. He is left floundering in a crowd of students who have no idea why he suddenly showed up in their classroom; a crowd of teenagers who glance suspiciously every time he moves; a bunch of strangers who don’t even know what the hell his name is.

In the past, Mark had thought that class introductions were awkward. This is _so much worse._

It takes a while for Mark to figure out he’s in a Korean history class. The class seems sort of interesting since Mark knows barely anything about Korean history, but the translation app he downloaded can’t keep up with the teacher’s fluency, and she talks sooo _fast_ … so, yeah, Mark ends up completely lost within the first few minutes. It occurs to him that unless he somehow figures out Korean overnight, his grades are absolutely, completely screwed. _Awesome_.

He resigns himself to writing down just the years on the board, because at least numbers are easy to understand. If there’s a textbook for this class, he might be able to ask Google Translate to explain it to him. If there isn’t, then Wikipedia probably has something. (Hopefully.)

Korean classrooms are different from what Mark is used to: First of all, the teacher talks the entire time – like, nonstop, only ever pausing to catch her breath. She never stops to ask questions or engage the students, and nobody ever raises their hand to ask questions. Every single one of the students is bent over their desks, pens scratching across their notebooks to the same monotonous rhythm as the teacher’s voice, and Mark starts to worry that even his heartbeat is too loud.

The Korean classroom is a lot more, uhh… intense? Yeah, that’s a good way to put it, it’s a lot more _intense_ than the schools in Canada. It makes him miss the way teaching used to be punctuated by catchphrases like ‘No talking in class!’ or ‘Put your phones away!’ (and the way everyone would just ignore them). Mark didn’t realize how much he actually enjoyed the ruckus until now.

He feels super relieved when the bell finally rings. The history teacher packs up her things for her next class and Mark is about to do the same, grabbing his school supplies and starting to stand… until he realizes that no one else has moved. In fact, the noise when he pushes up from his chair startles some people. Everyone else is still sitting at their desks and chatting with each other and no one seems at all concerned by the bell.

Eyes wide, Mark slowly sinks back down into his seat.

The boy sitting in front of him – having twisted in his seat at the screech of Mark’s chair – can’t help but snicker. He has a smooth beige complexion and his brown hair is split in the middle in a way that lets his forehead peek through. He eyes Mark up and down with a weird smirk on his face, brows drawn together like he’s trying to solve a mystery.

Mark isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to say something, but it’s okay because the dude beats him to it. Except, like, in _Korean_.

Mark’s mouth falls open, testing different words as he scrambles to come up with a response. He’s pretty sure the guy asked him something along the lines of _Who the hell are you?_ , but Mark isn’t sure whether it’s a genuine question or if the guy is making fun of him.

He ends up reciting the four sentences he would have used for his class introduction: _“Nae ileum-eun Mark-ibnida. Canada-eseo isahaessseubnida._ _Naneun hangug-eoleul jal moshajiman_ , _uliga jal jinaegil balabnida_.” It comes out as if it were all one sentence, but from the way the guy laughs – Mark flushes at how _loud_ he is – Mark thinks he gets the gist.

“ _Hello, Canada-boy_ ,” the boy says, gliding his open palm through the air as if waving to an extraterrestrial. His English is heavily accented, but Mark probably sounds the same way when he tries to speak Korean. “How are you?”

Mark hesitates, unsure of whether to reply in Korean or English. “I’m okay,” he finally says.

There’s a glint in the boy’s eyes that makes Mark a little nervous. “ _Jeoneun Donghyuck-ibnida_ ,” he says. His smile gets wider as he repeats in English, “My name is Donghyuck.”

Mark nods. _“Mark-ibnida.”_ It takes him a second to realize that he already introduced himself, but by that point Donghyuck is already laughing.

God, if every conversation goes like this, Mark thinks his face will be permanently red by the end of the day.

Once Donghyuck has calmed down, he points at Mark’s phone placed facedown on the desk. _“Translate?”_ he says, and Mark gets the implication. He swipes his password and his phone is already on the translation app, so he hands it over to Donghyuck and hopes the boy won’t do anything mean.

Donghyuck only takes a second to type something before he hands the phone back. On the right-hand side of the screen, the translation reads: ‘ _Why are you here? You didn’t like Canada?’_

It’s a valid question. Mark switches the input box back to English. ‘ _My dad was transferred to Korea for work,’_ he types, ‘ _so I had to move with him. I only know a little Korean, but I haven’t practiced since I was a kid. I have only been in Korea for a few days.’_ He passes the phone back.

Donghyuck’s lips purse when he skims through the paragraph and Mark can’t help but fidget. He knows it’s a weird situation – Mark is just as disoriented by the suddenness of it all – and he feels a little nervous as he watches Donghyuck type his reply.

This time, the boy just holds the phone up for Mark to read. ‘ _Do you have any friends here?’_

Mark blinks. He shakes his head, unsure of how to react. (He adds a quick _“Ani”_ because he needs to learn to answer with actual words.)

The way Donghyuck bites his lower lip seems mischievous, or maybe eager. His fingers tap nimbly on the screen and Mark breathes a sharp inhale when he sees what the translation reads. ‘ _I can be your friend, if you want.’_

Mark studies him warily, not sure if he actually means it. It can’t be that easy, right? Some people like to play pranks on the new kid, and Mark is so used to being the butt of the joke that you’d think he’d get better at recognizing the signs. But Donghyuck just raises his brows, waiting for his answer.

Mark hesitates. The situation is a little weird and really too sudden, honestly, but there’s something endearing about the way Donghyuck’s front teeth poke through his smile. Mark’s voice is quiet and bashful when he admits, _“Naneun goes-eul wonhaneun.”_ (“I want that.”)

The boy’s grin lights up his entire face. His eyes crease happily and he gives Mark a thumbs-up, and like… Mark honestly doesn’t know how to react. Like, it can’t be that easy? What even just happened? This is so _weird._

But before he can say anything else, a new teacher walks in. The class falls silent and Donghyuck turns back to face the front, leaning over his desk with a pen at the ready. The smart board boots up and… _Ugh._ Mark cringes at the rows of hangul crowding the screen. He braces himself to suffer through yet another lecture he won’t understand.

-o0o-

It turns out that Donghyuck was actually serious about his offer.

When the fourth bell rings, the silence breaks and the students start packing up their things… so Mark hopes that means it’s lunch time? ‘Cause he’s starving, seriously.

Mark is slow at getting his stuff together because like, ‘kay, he’s kind of clumsy, but he’s seriously in disbelief when he notices Donghyuck standing by, tapping his foot impatiently.

The boy whines something in Korean that Mark assumes means ‘Hurry up’, and Mark stumbles a little as he pulls himself onto his feet. _“Uli eodiganeungoya?”_ he asks. (“Where are we going?”)

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, too lazy to bother with the translator, and reaches for Mark’s wrist like it’s no big deal.

But it’s like a reflex: Mark flinches as the boy’s hand intrudes into his personal bubble, barely registering the movement before he quickly yanks his arm away.

The humour drains from their faces and they stare at each other, each trying to discern the other’s motives. Like… _what the hell?_ What even was that? Did this guy just try to _grab_ him? Is Mark supposed to be a dog?

The tension is difficult to dissipate when they think in different languages.

After a minute Donghyuck drops his shoulders. His expression is still confused and he seems a lot more cautious when he reaches out and, when he sees Mark shrink away again, eventually drops his hand back to his side. He fidgets like he’s not sure what to do. Suddenly Donghyuck starts towards the door and Mark winces, thinking that he’s already scared off his first potential friend and that the other boy is just going to ditch him now…

Except, well, he doesn’t. Instead, Donghyuck glances back and waves Mark over, brows raised impatiently as if Mark is wasting his _preeecious_ time.

Mark hesitates for a second; then he hurries to catch up to the other boy’s shadow.

To be honest, Mark wondered if the reason Donghyuck approached him was because the boy had no one else to talk to. He learns that it’s the complete opposite. It takes forever to reach Mark’s locker because Donghyuck seems to know everyone, high fiving as they pass each other, effortlessly joining a conversation, cracking jokes that actually make people laugh. Clearly he didn’t approach Mark (i.e., the new kid) out of desperation: It seems that for Donghyuck, making friends really _is_ as simple as a yes-or-no question.

So Mark is surprised when there’s only one other person sitting at their lunch table instead of an entire crowd. On the other hand, the boy sitting there is remarkably _un_ surprised at Mark’s appearance, rolling his eyes as soon as they both sit down.

Even though Mark can’t understand the words, he can hear the sarcasm drip from the boy’s cadence as he talks to Donghyuck, assessing Mark with unmasked skepticism. Mark would honestly be super intimidated if Donghyuck’s laugh didn’t immediately crack a smile on the boy’s face.

 _“Canada-boy,”_ Donghyuck gestures flippantly towards the new face like a bored tour guide, “Renjun.”

Mark is surprised at how quickly Renjun reaches to flick Donghyuck in the forehead, and then again at how unperturbed the latter seems about it, dramatically re-enacting a Shakespearean death through pained groans and fake tears. They make this _slightly violent_ skinship look strangely casual.

It turns out that Renjun is also a foreigner. It takes him longer to type his messages (periodically asking Donghyuck for spelling since Mark only has the English and Korean keyboards installed), and it isn’t long before he gives up and pulls out his own phone, holding up a translation written in illustrious Chinese characters. _‘I apologize that you had to deal with this person. He’s annoying, isn’t he?’_ (It earns him a slap on the arm once Donghyuck finds out what it says.)

Despite his sardonic character, Renjun is actually pretty nice. He moved here from China last year and he introduces Mark to his favourite _Let’s-learn-Korean_ app (which is great because Duolingo is completely _useless_ ). Mark feels optimistic about the app since Renjun’s Korean sounds pretty good, judging from the insults he and Donghyuck whip back and forth.

It’s hard to hold a translated conversation between three people, though. Mark types from English to Korean, Renjun has to translate from Korean to Chinese and then switch to Chinese-to-English output, and Donghyuck tries to follow along the best that he can, interrupting with comments that only Renjun can understand.

And Mark really tries not to feel like a third wheel. He’s actually super grateful that they’re including him in the first place and it’s nice to talk to someone who’s a foreigner too… but periodically, Donghyuck will say something witty to Renjun, who laughs and offers his own retort, and they get caught up in a conversation that Mark can only sit and watch. (He just hopes they aren’t laughing at him.)

 _‘Are you going to the non-native Korean classroom after lunch?’_ Renjun’s translation reads, and Mark blinks at him. He reaches for his phone but Donghyuck slaps his hand away as if scolding a child.

 _“Hangug-eoleul yeonseubhaeyahabnida!”_ It takes a second for Mark to translate the sentence in his head but he rolls his eyes as soon as the words click: ‘You need to practice your Korean.’

Donghyuck squawks at Mark’s salty expression and says something about how manners are universal and how Mark clearly has an _attitude problem_ , and Mark gets a feeling that this is what friendship with Donghyuck is going to be like. _Sigh._

He turns back to Renjun. _“Hangug… gyosil…?”_ (“Korean classroom?”) “Umm… _Ihaega an dwaeyo…”_ (“I don’t understand…”)

Renjun’s smile is too pitiful for Mark’s liking. Slowly he explains, _“Hangug-in-i anin hagsaengdeul-ege hangug-eoleul galeuchineun sueob-i issseubnida.”_

Mark takes a few seconds to process the sentence. Okay, he first hears the word for foreigners, then the word for students, then something about the Korean language… oh, and then the word for a classroom. He feels like that meme with the crime board and all the criss-crossing red string as he puts the sentence together. Basically, uhh… non-Korean students, and a classroom for the Korean language? And considering the question Renjun had typed earlier, that makes sense; Renjun is asking him if his next class is, like… a Korean class for people who don’t speak Korean. Right? Sort of?

 _“Moleugess-eoyo.”_ (“I don’t know.”) Renjun snorts a laugh but Mark’s not sure what’s funny, so his face turns a little red.

But Renjun is really patient when he talks, he speaks slowly and really enunciates the syllables to make it easier for Mark to pick up the words. (It must be because he was in the same boat last year, so he gets it.) It takes a while for his message to get through, but basically Renjun is saying that when the regular students have their advanced Korean classes, foreigners are pulled out of the classrooms to go to a special ‘Korean-for-dummies’ course instead. So, that’s where Mark will be heading after lunch, right?

But like yo, Mark actually has no clue. No one’s told him anything – or maybe they did and Mark just pretended to understand them? No but like, Mark has no idea where he’s supposed to go after this. So he tells Renjun that he’s going to go back to his regular classroom just to be safe, because what if he’s _not_ supposed to be in that ‘Korean-for-dummies’ class? And then he’s just going to end up lost??

Renjun bursts into laughter an hour later as Mark peeks sheepishly through the door. The staff member that brought him here leaves his side to go talk to the teacher and Mark sheepishly walks over to the back of the classroom.

 _“Dangsin-i olh-ass,”_ (“You were right”) he mumbles, and shoots a glare at Renjun when he snickers. Mark sinks down into the chair next to his as Renjun (probably) conveys the situation to the boys sitting around them.

The boy diagonally across from Mark splits into a huge grin. _“Annyeonghaseyo!”_ he greets, and he has an odd intonation to his voice that makes Mark crack a smile. _“Lucas-ibnida!”_

 _“Mannaseo bangabseubnida.”_ (“Nice to meet you.”) _“Mark-ibnida.”_

Lucas makes a weird face, mouth opened in an ‘o’ shape as his brows furrow in concentration. They all watch him as he finally attempts: _“_ M… Ma… _Mork?”_

They burst into laughter. It’s not clear what’s funnier, the pronunciation or the amount of effort that went into butchering Mark’s name. Lucas sits in the middle smiling, but he looks out of the loop as he glances cluelessly between them.

At least it makes things less awkward.

They go through a round of introductions. First, sitting beside Lucas and directly behind Mark, is a guy with tan skin and sharp black eyes that Lucas introduces as “Chitta… Chitta… pon… Chitta… pony-”

“Ten,” the guy interrupts. He smiles charmingly but something about him seems like he could be dangerous. Mark feels a little nervous for Lucas (but Ten ignores his failed pronunciation… _this time_ ).

On Lucas’s other side is Yangyang, who actually speaks English! “I’m from Germany, sort of,” he explains, “because like, when I was younger, I lived there for some years, so like… that’s why.”

“Oh.” Mark isn’t sure what to say, so he responds with, “I don’t know any German. But, uhh… I know some French?”

“Oh yeah?” Yangyang’s eyes narrow. “Let’s see this French, then. I want to hear.” _Oh shit_. Mark thinks that, as a European, Yangyang is probably pretty familiar with the French language… and by the anticipating turn of his lips, Mark feels like he’s being tested.

Ten blows a whistle and translates the context to Renjun and Lucas, turning back with a smirk. “Mark, we’re waiting.”

Mark is a little flustered from being put on the spot, but like… well, like, he had to take French in high school last year in Canada, so he knows a few sentences. “Uhh… _Bon-joor,_ ” he says unconfidently. “ _Je map-elle Mark.”_

Lucas leans back in his seat, blown away. “Wow man, _so cool_ ,” he says in English.

Yangyang only smiles, eyes creased like he’s trying not to laugh. Ten, just as amused, gives polite (slightly sarcastic) applause.

“My accent isn’t that good,” Mark admits bashfully, “but like, I don’t know, my teacher said I was good at like, the grammar or whatever, so…” His face turns even redder and he gives a nervous laugh. “Like, I used to know more, for real, I’m just kind of rusty.”

Yangyang’s smile gets a little wider and he shrugs. “I only know the accent from France, so, you know, maybe it sounds different in Canada.”

“Probably,” Mark nods, graciously taking the excuse. Honestly whatever, he got an A in that French class, that’s all that matters.

“Mark?” the teacher calls.

His new foreigner friends wave him off as Mark stumbles to the front of the class where the woman waits with a book in hand. “Nice to meet you,” she nods, her dark eyes assessing him. “Please refer to me as Kwon-nim.”

Her English has the slightest hint of a Korean accent but she seems fluent, which is awesome. Mark can’t help but sigh in relief as he returns her greeting.

Kwon-nim hums, brushing back a piece of long brown hair as she examines him. “You’re a little late, you know. School started a few months ago.”

Mark grimaces. “Yeah… At my old school, class was basically almost over. We would’ve been out for summer break soon, so like…” He shuts his eyes and groans. “ _Yeeeah_ , this really sucks.”

The teacher can’t help a small smile. “How much Korean can you speak?”

 _“Haji manh-eun.”_ (“Not a lot” – but hey, Mark still wants to show off the sentences he _does_ know.)

Kwon-nim sighs and shakes her head. “Then you’ll have to put in a lot of work.” She gestures to the desk behind him. “Do you speak any other languages?”

“Uhhh… I know a little Fren-” he pauses, ears flushing at the thought of Yangyang’s tight-lipped smile. “Never mind,” he corrects, “I only know English.”

“That’s unfortunate. It’s easier to pick up new languages if you’re already multilingual.” She clicks her tongue. “We’ll make do with what we have.”

She opens the workbook. The pages are lined paper with symbols written in faint dotted lines at the beginning of each section. It reminds Mark of the books he would use in first grade when he was learning to write in English.

“This will teach you the hangul alphabet. It’s not hard, it will show you a letter and you will just have to trace it until you get better at it.” She squeezes Mark’s shoulder, and if she notices the way Mark tenses up, she doesn’t comment. “Enjoy this part, this is the easy stuff.”

Mark flips through the book (and subtly pushes her hand away with the motion). “I had something like this when I was a kid, my mom really wanted me to learn Korean…” He trails off, regretting his child-self’s complete lack of motivation. “I’m pretty sure I remember most of the letters, but like, I don’t know how to really use them…?” He scrunches his face as he tries to remember those old classes. “‘Cause like, Korean words are like… you know, _different_ from English words.”

The teacher stares. “I’m aware,” she deadpans.

Before Mark can get awkward – because like _he didn’t mean it like that_ , he just didn’t say it right! – Kwon-nim continues explaining. “Lucky for you, Korean isn’t a very hard language. You would have a lot more trouble if you’d transferred to China or Japan instead, kanji is not the most fun to deal with.” She makes a face like she knows the feeling. “So, you’ll start with learning the different sounds, and when you’re done this part, we can start combining them into syllables and words.”

Oh, right, Mark remembers something like this. “Aren’t the letters sort of, like, instructions, sort of?” Kwon-nim just blinks at him, so he elaborates. “I thought it was like, uhh… like, there’s different parts, or sounds, or whatever, and then you have to combine the sounds to make… like… the _actual_ sound?”

Kwon-nim’s eyes defocus like she needs time to process Mark’s statement. Suddenly her face lights up in clarity. “Yes, okay, I know what you mean.” She grabs a pencil and sticky note from her desk, brings it over to the desk, and draws two characters.

안녕

“Each symbol represents the shape your mouth is supposed to take when you make the sound,” Kwon-nim explains. “You read it from left to right, top to bottom.”

Mark recognizes the characters that represent one of the most basic words he knows. “Annyeong?” (“Hi.”)

The teacher nods. “Now look at each part of the hangul, and say the word very slowly.”

Mark frowns. “A…” His mouth opens in a round shape, matching the circle in the first character. “N…” His mouth closes into a thinner line, showing his teeth. “Nyeo…” The second character begins with the same symbol that the first syllable ended with, but he opens a little wider at the sound of the O. “…-ng.” He finishes the word dragging out the last sound… and Mark notices that his mouth in a thin oval shape. It mimics the oval at the bottom of the second hangul.

Mark stares at the word, the epiphany slowly whirring through his brain. He gasps, “Oh, shit!”

The teacher’s lips press together at the curse but she ignores it. “Once you’re able to memorize the different shapes, reading hangul becomes very easy. The difficult part is understanding what the words mean.”

Mark turns his stare upwards, eyes like saucers. “…Holy shit,” he curses again, unable to filter himself. “Yoooo, I actually get this!” He looks back down at the symbols, stunned. “ _Yoooo…_ ”

Kwon-nim’s eyes narrow. “You can learn to express yourself without swearing.”

“Right, right.” Satisfied with their short lesson, Mark picks up his notebook and school supplies and pushes up from his chair, ready to move to a less isolated desk, but Kwon-nim doesn’t look pleased.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she stops him, voice stricter now.

“I-I…” Mark stammers, glancing back at where Renjun and his friends are gathered. “I was just going to go sit over there…?”

Her head shakes. “You’re already behind as it is. The last thing you need is their distractions.”

Now that Mark listens for it, he can hear Lucas’s booming laugh and YangYang’s sharp comments and… okay, it’s mostly those two, but they’re loud enough to make up for Renjun and Ten’s more reasonable volumes.

“HEY!” Mark startles at the teacher’s yell as she scolds them. “ _Joyonghi hae! Haeya hal il-i issseubnida_!”

Mark has no idea what she just said but the sudden silence from the back of the room confirms it wasn’t praise. (They start snickering a few seconds later though, so Renjun’s friends must not be as intimidated by the woman as they should be.)

Kwon-nim seems a little irritated when she turns back to Mark. “You can sit at the front here,” she says. “It will be easier for me to help you when you need it.” The teacher surely sees the disappointment on his face but is unaffected. She gestures at him until, defeated, Mark sits back down.

Mark sighs and begins tracing the Korean letters like a clumsy first-grader. It’s frustrating how wobbly his symbols look compared to the examples… Like, it really shouldn’t be hard to draw lines and circles, but the movements are unfamiliar to his romanized hands.

After his ninth recreation of ㅎ (apparently it’s supposed to be an H but like, you know, _in Korean_ ), he props up his elbow and looks over at the teacher, then glances longingly over his shoulder at Renjun’s group (they’re already loud again). He turns back to where Kwon-nim stands. Would she notice if Mark got up just for a second or two? You know, just to walk over and remind the boys of his presence before they lose interest in the new kid’s novelty… It’s for the sake of his nonexistent social life, surely Kwon-nim will understand? Maybe?

The teacher stands over in his right peripheral, speaking to a dark-haired boy in a tongue that doesn’t sound Korean. The boy leans over the desk and crosses something out in his notebook and, honestly, Mark didn’t even notice him seated in the corner until now.

It’s weird, it’s a pretty big classroom but there are only like… he counts one, two, three… six students, including Mark. You’d think they’d all sit together for the company, but this guy’s all by himself at the edge near the wall, and like-

Oh, no wait. The boy sits back in his seat and now Mark can see another student beside him. The student is staring down at the ground with unsubtle defocus and seems completely disinterested in whatever Kwon-nim is saying. Mark is surprised that the petite woman hasn’t called him out on it yet, but she talks to the dark-haired boy as if he’s the only one that can hear her.

It’s really easy to refer to the first one as the “dark-haired boy” to differentiate them because the other guy is basically the opposite. His hair is pulled back into a bright red ponytail (like, _firetruck-_ red, whoa), and like… ‘kay there can’t _possibly_ be that many red-headed guys in Asia, right?

The redhead must feel Mark staring because his gaze suddenly flicks up. Mark is completely taken aback by the intensity of his dark glare. Like, wait, is he… _Is he mad?_ He looks mad. Shit, what? Why? Mark didn’t even do anything! (Probably.)

But the guy doesn’t do anything: He just stares.

It feels like he’s peering into Mark’s soul or something – and not in a good way – so Mark can’t help but fidget. His eyes dart around the room, he gives a nervous chuckle, he thinks about maybe playing it cool but like… this dude has absolutely no shame. He doesn’t even try to _hide_ the way he’s staring. Isn’t this rude? Is this a _thing_ in Korea or something?

Mark faces him again and wonders if he should say something, but he stops himself. The corner of the boy’s lips is twisted up into a subtle smirk and if Mark had any doubts before, they’re gone the moment he recognizes the amusement in his expression: This is definitely the same dude from earlier today, the one he almost knocked over.

Mark quickly averts his gaze back to his notebook. Something about that nearly imperceptible quirk of the lips feels mocking, and Mark isn’t really comfortable with direct eye contact to begin with. He’s still not sure if the dude is angry at him or if it’s because Mark has something weird on his face or…?

He wipes at the corner of his mouth (in a totally casual and not-self-conscious way, of course), pretending to be super engrossed in drawing the ㅁcharacter over and over again on his lined paper. Because, you know, drawing a little square is absolutely exhilarating and takes 100% of one’s attention, right?

After a few more seconds of being _enraptured_ by the little squares (apparently it’s supposed to be an “m” sound in Korean), the redhead finally looks away – Mark doesn’t even need to check because he swears he can _feel_ the absence, feels the release of that laser-like tension.

He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds. See, Mark doesn’t think he’s a socially anxious person, but he’s easily flustered. If he can’t laugh something off then things get uncomfortable, and he’d rather blurt out something stupid than sit through a painful silence, you know? (Then again it doesn’t take much for him to say something stupid even in the best of circumstances.) So yeah. Awkward eye contact? Mark will pass.

He’s pretty sure the bright-red-hair-guy recognized him from the collision earlier today. But it’s not like it was a really big deal, right? Sure Mark was a little clumsy for a second but no one broke any bones, so it’s all good. Right? No problem. He shakes his head and goes back to tracing his tenth super awesome square thing.

“Mark!” Renjun calls. When Mark turns, the boy is waving him over to the back, beckoning him to join.

He glances over at Kwon-nim, who’s still helping the dark-haired boy. She definitely heard him (Renjun didn’t bother being subtle) but she doesn’t say anything. And, well, if she’s not going to yell at them… Mark pushes himself up and slowly walks to the loud side of the class, keeping his eyes on her the whole time just to be safe.

The group welcomes him back with an animate cheer. “We thought you were basically, like, kidnapped,” Yangyang says. “Like, she was holding you hostage, or yeah.”

“I guess she was trying to explain the lesson to me.” Mark gives a small smile. “She said that you guys are a distraction.”

Lucas gasps in mock offense and Ten objects with a wave of his hand. “ _Life_ is a distraction.”

“ _Deep_ ,” Yangyang quips.

“No, for real.” Ten becomes super serious. “You have to think about it: Life is basically just about living and dying, like there’s nothing fancy about it. So, really, everything we do in life-” he gestures around the class, “-is just a distraction to help us forget the fact that we are all like, inevitably, going to die.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “Whoa...” The concept wisps through his mind and brings with it a certain clarity, an epiphany so to speak, because maybe Ten’s _right_ and they’re all just obliviously going through the motions to appease societal expectations, just to avoid the impending finality of-

“ _Nongdam-iya_ ,” Renjun interrupts. (“He’s joking.”)

Ten is grinning slyly, seemingly fascinated with Mark’s gullibility. It makes Mark a little nervous. (Lucas elbows Ten’s side and murmurs “ _Chaghage gul eola_ ”; “Be nice.”)

Renjun is watching Mark carefully. He pulls out his phone and a moment later, he shows Mark the translated text with a look of concern: _‘Are you okay with being with the group? I’m sorry if I pressured you to come here... If you would rather be studying, it’s okay.’_

Mark is quick to shake his head, eyes wide. “No! Uh… _Naneun haengboghada_.” (“I’m happy.”)

When Renjun smiles, Mark notices that he has a snaggletooth on one side. It looks cute.

“So how did you end up being all buddy-buddy with Renjun?” Ten asks, glancing between them with his chin propped up in his hand. “He’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy type.”

Mark gasps when Renjun raises his fist at Ten. “Wait, you can understand what he’s saying?”

The Chinese boy gets a little shy. “A… A _little_ …” he answers with a meek smile.

“Yo, but you’re good though!” Mark says. “Your pronunciation is really good.”

Renjun does a dismissing gesture and rolls his eyes. Even so, his cheeks are a little flushed. Mark gets the feeling that the praise makes him happier than he lets on, but he doesn’t say anything.

Ten clears his throat. “So?” He points back at Renjun. “Did you bribe him or something?”

“No,” Mark laughs at the way Renjun glares, “He’s friends with a person in my class, so we met during lunch… Do you know Donghyuck?”

At first it doesn’t seem like he does, but when Ten looks over at Renjun, he starts laughing. “Oh, you mean Renjun’s little husband?”

“ _Geuneun nae nampyeon-i aniya_ ,” Renjun groans (“He’s not my husband”), and it sounds like they’ve probably had this conversation before.

Ten grins. “Yeah, Renjun’s husband has a soft spot for strays. First he adopted baby Jun over here-” He gestures at the Chinese boy. “-and then now you pop up out of nowhere and he’s already adopted you too?” He laughs. “What, is he bad at speaking Korean or something? The other Korean kids don’t like him?”

“He actually seems really popular,” Mark defends. “He’s the one who started talking to me first, so…” He shrugs. “I don’t know, I think he’s nice.”

Renjun shows his phone. _‘He knows,’_ the app reads, _‘he just likes teasing me.’_ Out loud he adds, “ _Yangyang-eun geuwa gyeolhonhagileul wonhaji anhgi ttaemun-e jiltusim-i manhda.”_

Mark isn’t completely sure what that means but he recognizes Yangyang’s name, then a word implying something negative (do not want? do not like?), and then the word for… marriage?

Ten laughs. “Yangyang,” he calls. Yangyang looks up but turns wary when he sees Ten’s grin. “Yangyang, baby, Renjun says that you don’t want to be my little wife! You have to remind him about how much you love me.”

Yangyang’s grimace is an answer in itself. “Don’t call me baby. It’s gross.”

Ten turns back around with a satisfied smirk. “See? He doesn’t deny it.”

But Mark is looking back over his shoulder towards the front of the class. The dark-haired boy is reading something and the redhead seems lost in his own world again, staring up at the ceiling. “Why do they sit all the way over there?” he asks.

Ten and Renjun follow his gaze. “We’re not cool enough, I guess,” Ten says. Mark is pretty sure it’s just a joke, but with Ten, it’s hard to tell. Ten looks at him. “You know, it’s not easy when no one else speaks your language.”

Yeah, Mark knows the feeling.

“I got lucky because last year there were two Thai girls.” Ten gestures around them. “As you can see, they ditched me, so,” he nods at the rest of the group, “I’m stuck with these guys.”

“I heard that!” Yangyang quips from the other desk.

“Good!” Ten shouts back. “But yeah, uh…” He forgets what he was saying until he sees where Mark is looking. “Right, so like last year Jackson and Mark – there was a different Mark, not _you_ – they spoke Chinese too. But they were already friends with each other and Sicheng’s kind of shy, so they didn’t really hang out together.

“But like we’ve never had anyone else in the class who’s Japanese though, so Yuta was kind of a loner. And Sicheng wasn’t really friends with anyone either, so…” Ten makes a click sound, miming two puzzle pieces being slotted together. “And so they kind of stick together.”

Mark watches the dark-haired boy laugh and the way that the redhead grins. He wonders whether Renjun’s group ostracized the pair (whether by accident or on purpose) or if those two really did isolate themselves.

“But yeah, anyway, now all the new kids this year are Chinese – except Somi, but she left, so you’re out of luck – so now I’m like the token minority.” Ten winks. “Or, well, now there’s you too. But at least Yangyang and I talk English, so you don’t have it that bad.”

“’Token _minority’_ ”, Renjun parrots with a snort. “ _Yangyang wa Lucas-eudo yeong-eoleul gusahabnida.”_ (“Yangyang and Lucas speak English too.”) “ _Dangsin-eun honjaga ani eossseubnida_.” (“So you weren’t alone.”)

Ten scoffs. “Please, Lucas doesn’t speak English unless he’s quoting a meme.”

Lucas turns at the sounds of his name and grins. “Yeah man!” He imitates a chef’s kiss. “It’s all good. I’m okay. Yeah!”

Ten pats his shoulder. “You’re doing great, baby.”

The bell rings. It startles Mark because he actually sort of forgot that they were still in school.

He stands and bounces from foot to foot as he waits for his new friends to gather their things. He’s in a good mood – excited even – because he’s never been able to make friends on the first day at a new school. Considering that he’s in a foreign country and trying to speak a foreign language, this is so great. Mark is _psyched_.

He’s about to follow Renjun out when the boy stops and frowns at him. _“Dangsin-ui mulgeon-eun eodie issseubnikka_?” (“Where is your stuff?”)

Good question. For a second, Mark doesn’t know the answer himself. Uhh… Oh, right! Mark points back into the classroom with an awkward laugh; his binder is still on the front-most desk where he abandoned it. _Duh_.

Renjun seems to understand. He steps back towards the class but Mark stops him with a shoo of his hand. “ _Eoseo,”_ Mark says. (“Go ahead.”)

“ _Jinjja?_ ” Renjun asks, brows raised.

Mark smiles and shoos him away again. He hears Renjun tsk, “ _Gil-eul ilhji masibsio_.” Mark isn’t totally sure what that means but it sounds like a warning – ‘stay out of trouble’, maybe? Something like that.

He closes his workbook – not before admiring his super awesome hangul squares from earlier – and pulls the elastic off his makeshift pencil case (if you can call it that), adding his pencil to the group of writing utensils and securing them once again. (It’s seriously so much cheaper than a real pencil case.)

Near him, dark-haired boy sways back and forth and waits for redhead guy to finish his conversation with Kwon-nim. When Mark listens, he realizes that they’re not speaking Korean; it’s some other vaguely Asian-sounding language that Mark doesn’t understand. Hmm… He wonders how many languages Kwon-nim speaks in total. She knows Korean, English, now whatever _this_ is… It’s not Chinese, is it?

Mark doesn’t realize he was staring until Kwon-nim catches his eye. He quickly turns away – which is stupid because like, he already got caught staring, so what’s the point? – but Kwon-nim says, “Mark, try to finish that workbook by tomorrow if you can.”

“Tomorrow?” Mark repeats. The workbook has, like 35 pages. He’s supposed to get them done all in _one night_?

Kwon-nim sighs. “At the worst, make sure it’s done by Wednesday. You shouldn’t need any more time than that.”

Mark cringes. He hasn’t been assigned actual homework since like, probably elementary school. Then again, he’s learning the equivalent of a Korean first grader curriculum, so maybe it’s fitting.

Dark-haired boy and redhead guy are both looking at him and Mark feels a little embarrassed. Can they tell how illiterate he is? It’s actually so humiliating that his Korean skills are limited to drawing little squares over and over again, geez.

Mark looks away, stacks his things onto his binder and heads for the door. Behind him he hears, “ _Yuta, kon'ya mo essei ni torikakattemasu yo ne?_ ” and for real, it’s not Chinese, right?

There were a lot of Chinese people in Vancouver so maybe Mark should be better at recognizing it, but it’s not like he sat there and eavesdropped on them. Honestly, he can’t really tell the difference between any language beyond English and French. Maybe Spanish too. Oh, and he can recognize when someone’s speaking Korean, but that’s not really helpful when he’s living in South Korea, it’s kind of a given. But yeah, any other language falls under an umbrella that Mark calls “foreign”, and he never had to worry about it… well, until now.

Mark pulls himself out from his daydreams when he steps out the door and realizes that he has _no idea_ where he’s going. Mark isn’t really the observant type, so when the staff member brought him down an hour, he just followed her without paying attention to where they were going.

He sighs and shifts his binder onto one arm so he can search for his inglorious map. He’s pretty sure the haphazard sketch only depicts the second floor of the building, but if Mark can at least find the stairs, it should be smooth sailing from there... probably.

Okay, so: Mark is a clumsy person. This is an established fact.

He’s balancing his stuff in his left hand while trying to flip through the binder with his right hand, and this kind of multitasking requires focus, you know? So he’s taken completely off-guard when he feels a sharp _shove_ against his back.

It wasn’t actually that hard but because he wasn’t expecting it, Mark trips over his own feet. His binder flies to the one side and Mark falls to the other, smacking his hands and knee on the tile – _Ow._

He twists to see the other person, eyes wide. “Shit, sorry!” he says without thinking.

The redhead looks even more surprised than Mark does. His wide eyes glance over the scene: the open binder, the pack of pens, the stupid paper map, then back at the new kid on the floor in front of him… and he starts to smile.

Mark smiles too because he thinks they’re going to laugh off the situation, ‘cause like… ‘kay, it was actually kind of funny. But then he realizes the redhead isn’t laughing _with_ him.

The redhead’s smile shows all his teeth, his eyes gleam with enrapture. He glances back to where the dark-haired boy is snickering and as Mark watches them exchange amused looks, he feels a nervous but familiar feeling swell in his gut.

The redhead breathes a laugh and turns back to Mark. He steps forward so his shoe is pressed onto the edge of the map and, making direct eye contact, slides the page over to where Mark is still on his knees. “ _Yeogi yo._ ” (“Here you go.”) Even though he’s smiling, there’s a mocking glint in his intense gaze.

Mark looks away first, leaning to pick up the paper. “ _Kamsahamnida_ ,” he says quietly. (“Thank you.”) But when he sees the way the redhead grins… _Oh no_. Mark realizes his politeness may have been a big mistake.

Luckily the redhead and the dark-haired boy brush past him without another word. (Even though Mark’s Korean isn’t good, he can tell they’re laughing about him.)

He closes his eyes, heaves a sigh, and tells himself that it was an accident. _Let’s be optimistic, Mark._ He pushes himself back to his feet – _ow,_ shit, that’s definitely going to bruise – gathers his stuff, and focuses on the task on hand, which is finding his way back to his homeroom.

There is a distinct outline of a shoeprint on his map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Saturday, June 27th, 2020; 3:47am**
> 
> I wrote the French scene before Mark and Johnny came out with their “trip to France” v-live. I can’t believe that his lack of French is actually canon now… Did I predict it?
> 
> **Tuesday, July 15th, 2020; 12:47am**
> 
> I can’t believe it seriously took me two whole months to type out 8.5k words. My perfectionism knows no bounds.
> 
> As you saw in the tags, this is a long-term project. This story, like all of my projects, will be very character-based: All of the characters have intricate histories and lives and dreams, and they are more than just the roles they play (e.g. “Mark’s best friend”, “Yuta’s ex”, “that guy that asks Mark for his pencil sharpener”). 
> 
> I’m trying to incorporate the real person’s mannerisms into their character as much as I can. One thing I’ve particularly paid attention to is each character’s speech habits. Of course, I’m only really able to do this for English-speaking characters… But yooooo, like dude, it’s actually like, so much fun though? (Emphasis on Like.) It’s funny, even though Mark, Ten, and Yangyang are all terrible abusers of the word ‘like’, they each use it in different ways – have you noticed that?
> 
> Also important is that, while this story is obviously based on Mark and Yuta’s relationship, it’s not going to be the only part of the story. Mark still has a life outside of their sexual tension – you know, like a real human being does – and we’ll be exploring those parts too! See, my favourite thing in writing is to take an overused, clichéd plot and try to write in a way that is realistic while also subverting as many tropes as I can. So I encourage you to list any clichés that come to mind so I can make sure to avoid/defy them! 😉
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter, and I’d really appreciate if you could leave a comment to let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading, remember that you’re a wonderful person who deserves nice things, and have a great day!
> 
> EDIT: Someone told me to share my twitter, so here it is: [@OMGSaysMyHeart](https://twitter.com/OMGSaysMyHeart)  
> And if you want to ask me questions, [ here is my curious cat account!](https://curiouscat.qa/OMGSaysMyHeart)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **August 1st, 2020; 1:57am**
> 
> I joined the NaNoWriMo summer camp for July, using this story as my main project. For those who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is a challenge in which you make a goal to write a pre-determined number of words within a month; I made it my goal to write 20k words in July.
> 
>  _Aaaaaand…….._ I lost, lol. I only made it to 19232. In my defense, I leave for Quebec today _(Oh Canada~),_ so I had to take a very long pause to pack. And also, I’ve definitely written more than 20k words overall, but because my intensely critical self kept deleting things and rewriting them, well… _Sigh._ I like excuses, they make me feel better. _Hmph._ If anyone asks, I’ll tell them that I successfully completed my NaNoWriMo goal; nobody can prove otherwise. :P (Funny enough, the site glitched and gave me the completion certificate even though I didn't complete anything, sooo... I see this as a win.)

In Canada, when two people bump into each other, it’s customary for the both of them to apologize to each other. It’s a way for the person at fault to express that they had no ill intentions, and for the victim to show that they hold no resentment. Additionally, it gives them both a chance to make sure the other person is not harmed. See, manners have never hurt and the words ‘I’m sorry’ are so easy to say, so every Canadian has been brought up to habitually utter the phrase like punctuation.

Mark yawns as he walks down the hall, map in hand, struggling to remember where his new locker is. He’s not super good at directions (he’s lucky to have successfully made it to school despite having Google Maps lead the way), and it’s even harder to make out the sketches now that the paper is stained with a mocking, dirty footprint.

Still, he finds locker number 81 remarkably faster than he did on the first day. That feels super good because it probably means he’s developing, like, muscle memory, or whatever it’s called.

He lets his backpack slip off his shoulders, swinging it frontwards so he can rummage through the loose papers that have begun to accumulate. It takes him a second to find the sticky note on which his lock combination is scribed, but now – armed with the _secret code_ – Mark crouches to meet the numbered dial eye-to-eye.

Ah, _yes_ … the good old locker-lock, ruthlessly befuddling high school students around the globe: One of Mark’s sworn enemies.

His mouth twists in concentration as Mark carefully decodes the very convoluted process of turning the knob clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then- oh no _wait_ , he totally messed up a number, _shit_ – okay so then _keep_ turning counter-clockwise…

He hears a click.

For a solid minute, all Mark can do is stare.

He has to test the loosened clasp before he can consider acknowledging that, somehow, he actually managed to unlock the new locker on his first try. Wait, _whaaat?_ Like _yo_ , that never happens! Seriously, it must be a lucky day or something.

So Mark is feeling pretty good about himself when he hangs his backpack off the little hook and pulls out his school supplies. He sees the workbook that Kwon-nim gave him and, _hm_... _best to double-check_ , so he leafs through the pages just to make sure he hasn’t missed any of them. After the first dozen rows of the same hangul _over and over again_ , his eyes start to droop...

So, okay, to be honest, Mark stayed up kind of late to finish tracing all of the hangul – not because it was hard but because he _may_ have procrastinated a little bit. But like, in his defense, it’s probably because he’s still getting used to the time zones or whatever. He’s always been more productive at night, you know?

He’s in the middle of another yawn when suddenly someone’s shoulder slam into his – okay _ow_ , fuck, that was _definitely_ a wakeup call. Mark must have backed up too much and gotten in someone’s way or something, so it serves him right for not being observant. “Sorry!” he calls out behind him.

There’s a loud laugh. A glimpse of bright red hair.

…Oh.

Mark tries to suppress the feeling of déjà vu as he watches the red disappear around a corner. His first instinct was – always is – to assume shared responsibility. But, now that Mark’s paying attention… he’s still standing quite near the lockers and not at all in the middle of the area. Someone would have had to go out of their way to dip to the side and check him.

Mark tries to be optimistic in life, but he’s not stupid: He knows it wasn’t an accident this time.

With lips pressed tightly together, Mark closes his locker and goes on with his day. What else can he do? It’s not like he can go tattletale – he doesn’t know enough Korean to whine about it even if he wanted to, and _fuck_ , he doesn’t even know the guy’s _name._ So, yeah, it’s fine: Just get over it. Shake it off. Ignore the problem and it’ll go away. _All that jazz._

With a long, deep breath, Mark merges back into the stream of students. Mind focused on finding his classroom amidst the dirt on his map, he absentmindedly rubs at the sore spot through his sleeve and winces. _‘So much for feeling lucky,’_ he thinks.

Mark spends most of his morning classes trying to decipher the lesson from his teacher’s intonation (it doesn’t help much), counting down the minutes until the smart board fades to black… but, there is one class in the day that he _does_ look forward to.

He perks up when the fourth period bell rings and the teacher walks through the door. It’s funny to think about, but when Mark had seen this particular teacher for the first time, he was taken aback: With his pale skin and light brown hair, Mr. Smith was the first White person Mark had seen since he arrived in Korea (other than some of the airport staff). And then when the man opened his mouth, Mark was utterly shocked that he could _actually understand_ the words.

Fourth period, Mark discovered, is for English class. With the exception of lunch, it’s his favourite part of the day.

“Mark,” the teacher calls, and Mark eagerly meets the man at the front of the class. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Tired,” Mark admits, rubbing the ball of his palm into his temple in hopes that the pressure will wake up his brain. “What about you, Mr. Smith?”

The teacher’s cheeks dimple whenever he smiles. “I’ve had my coffee, so I’m feeling tolerable.”

Of course, the regular English class in South Korea is very basic: They focus on the same kind of curriculum that Mark will have for his _Korean-for-dummies_ course (though unlike Mark, they’re past infinitely tracing the same letters). But someone must have let Mr. Smith know about Mark’s sudden enrollment because, on the first day, Mr. Smith had asked to speak with him.

Honestly, Mark was a little terrified. None of his other teachers had stopped to speak with him (unless Mark asked them first) and he could feel other students watching as he nervously approached the teacher. But, luckily, Mr. Smith is actually super nice. He explained that he’s from New York – like, as in the _United States_ – so not only is he fluent in English but he actually personally understands Mark’s culture shock. So, yeah, Mark thinks he’s pretty great.

“Did you finish that paper I assigned?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s in my binder.” Mark points his thumb back over his shoulder. “Want me to grab it?”

As soon as he gets the okay, Mark scurries back to his desk. He feels giddy as he pulls out the freeform essay he wrote, and when he looks up, Donghyuck has his brow raised inquisitively.

“ _Teugbyeolhan sugje,_ ” Mark says. (“Special homework.”) He hopes it’s enough to get his point across because he’s not sure how else to elaborate.

Donghyuck squints, lips pursed. He asks, “ _Hajiman dasi olgeoya?_ ”, but Mark can only offer a small smile in response. With a dramatic sigh, Donghyuck is forced to open his newly-downloaded translation app. (He complains that he was able to delete it when Renjun became fluent enough to communicate verbally, but _now_ , Mark is taking up his _precious_ phone space, and Mark should be so grateful because _he had to delete an app to make room for this!!_ )

He holds up his phone. _‘You’re going to come back and help me with this class, right?’_ When Mark nods, Donghyuck blows a relieved sigh. He pretends to pet Mark’s hair from afar and praises in English, “You are a _good_ Canada boy.”

Back in North America, there is an unspoken agreement between citizens to leave a two-foot gap between each other at all times. There are exceptions of course, like with family, or in nightclubs, or during American Black Friday events… but generally physical contact is seen as something very intimate. If you touch someone who isn’t family, it’s presumed that you’re either trying to romance them or fuck them. So… _yeeeah_ , the insistent skinship in Korea triggers some mixed feelings for Mark.

It seems like Donghyuck must be pretty intuitive, though. The boy seems to realize how much Mark values his personal space and has adapted accordingly, gifting the same gestures of affection that he normally would from the slightest distance instead. It’s something Mark didn’t expect, but that he sincerely appreciates.

He scrunches his nose at Donghyuck’s silly praise and responds with a sarcastic, “ _Cheonman-eyo,_ ” (“You’re welcome”). Donghyuck shoots happy finger guns as Mark walks back up to the front, where the teacher fiddles with the ( _stupid_ ) smartboard remote and its ( _too many_ ) buttons.

He’s a little nervous as he waits for the smartboard to boot ( _whiteboards were so much easier to figure out, you know_ ), shuffling his feet when he finally offers Mr. Smith his paper. Basically, the young English teacher asked Mark to write something – anything, _no big deal_ – so he can get an idea of Mark’s literacy abilities. Considering how pathetic Mark is in every other class right now, he really, _really_ wants to prove his potential in the one class he _can_ succeed in. He wants to prove to someone that he’s not a total dunce, so his eyes focus on the subtle lines of the teacher’s face in anticipation of any slight change in expression.

Mr. Smith flips the page, a brow quirked as he reads the last few lines. “Are you a writer?” he asks.

“Oh- uh, no, not really.” Mark’s voice cracks on the last syllable. “I mean like, I used to want to be a writer, but like, you know, _nah_ , I’m not actually one.”

Mr. Smith looks at him curiously. “You changed your mind?”

“I guess so,” Mark shrugs. “‘Cause like, I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m good at that kind of thing? And I don’t exactly have the motivation to, like, you know, to do a whole book, or… something like that.” There’s a beat of silence so Mark shrugs again for emphasis.

Slowly, the teacher nods, mulling over the statement. “What you have here is good. You’re clearly capable.” (Mark stays awkwardly silent, not knowing whether he’s supposed to agree.) “…I think I want to challenge you.”

“Challenge me?” Mark’s eyes go wide. “Wait, like, how?”

Mr. Smith shrugs, skimming Mark’s paper. “I don’t know yet. Give me a few days to figure something out for you.”

Oh. Uh… Mark isn’t sure how to react. It’s not like he wrote anything extravagant for the paper but like, you know, he worked hard on it to be honest. Sooo… he’s hoping this means that Mr. Smith is impressed? Or, wait, _oh shit,_ maybe it’s supposed to be a challenge because he’s _not_ impressed? Unless it’s because… uh… Ah, Mark’s probably overthinking.

Mr. Smith looks up, misinterprets Mark’s perplexment, and frowns. “Unless you don’t want to?”

“No!” Mark waves his hands in front of him. “No no, it’s okay. It’s cool. I just…” He bites his lip hesitantly. “Am I… like… Do I… Do I go back now?”

“Back…?” It takes the teacher a moment to figure out the boy’s fidgeting. “Oh. Yeah, you can go back to your seat.” (Mr. Smith didn’t think he had to give permission.)

Donghyuck is already facing backwards when Mark sits down. They stare at each other for a moment until Donghyuck motions impatiently, and Mark knows he’s not fluent enough for this shit.

 _‘What does he want you to do?’_ Donghyuck asks once Mark has translated the situation. He shrugs his shoulders cluelessly, so Donghyuck retypes his question. _‘What did you write?’_

“Eh…” Mark has always liked writing, but has rarely been allowed to choose his own topics for class projects. So when Mr. Smith told him that he could write about anything he wanted, the hardest part of the project was honestly trying to figure out something worth writing about in the first place.

The topic had to be sophisticated so he could show off his vocabulary, and profound enough to evoke critical thinking. He wanted to write something that would make a person _think_ and self-reflect, but without wasting hours to research and fact-check. So… what kind of topic could possibly inspire that kind of introspection?

“Do you know Ten?”

Donghyuck stares blankly and it reminds Mark of when he asked Ten the opposite question just the other day. Mark repeats, “ _Ten aseyo?_ ”

“ _Dangsin-i han mal-eul al-ayo_.” (“I know what you said.”) Donghyuck shakes his head. “ _Moleugess-eoyo_.” (“I don’t know him.”)

Mark grabs his phone. _‘Ten is one of the people in our Korean class. He’s friends with Renjun.’_ He frowns. _‘You’ve never met? Ten knows who you are.’_

Donghyuck seems confused, brows furrowed as he tries to connect the dots. “ _Naega nugunji al-a…?_ ” (“He knows who I am…?”) Suddenly his eyes light up with a gasp. “ _Renjun-ga na-e daehae iyagihandaneun uimiingayo?_ ” Mark stares until Donghyuck grabs the phone with a sigh. _‘Renjun talks about me??’_

“Oh.” Mark thinks about the conversation Ten and Renjun had about husbands. “Uhh… _Naneun geuleohge saeng-gaghanda._ ” (“I guess so.”)

Donghyuck beams. “Cuuuuute!” he coos, cupping his cheeks in his hands. “ _Geuneun chingudeulgwa jeoe daehae iyagihabnida, gwiyeobda!_ ” (“He talks about me with his friends, so cute!”)

Mark wonders too late whether that was a secret. He imagines the teasing Renjun is going to get lunch and winces, knowing that Renjun will blame him for it. Uhh… maybe a distraction will make Donghyuck forget? “Yeah, so about what I wrote.”

Donghyuck watches curiously as Mark types, backspaces, types again, and he heaves an exasperated sigh. “ _Geunyang malhae._ ” (“Just say it”.)

Fingers hesitant over the keyboard, Mark admits that there’s no easy way to explain it. He reluctantly reveals his attempted summary: _‘Have you ever stopped to think about how life is just distracting us from death?’_

Donghyuck reads the translation. His brows furrow and he _re_ -reads the translation. When he finally looks up, Donghyuck appears rather unimpressed.

Mark splutters, cheeks warm as he holds the backspace button. Maybe it just didn’t translate properly or something. Right? He hands Donghyuck a more detailed summary: _‘Basically, life is just the time we spend alive before we die, right? So when you think about it, that means that everything we do while we’re alive is just a distraction from what’s going to happen when we die.’_

Donghyuck grimaces and beckons for the phone. _‘Please don’t tell me that’s what you handed in.’_

Mark turns bright red. He whines when Donghyuck pulls the phone out of his reach, because _it’s just hard to explain it over an app,_ _okay_? It probably didn’t even get translated right, ‘cause like, these are _deep_ concepts. You know?

 _‘Did that Ten guy suggest this to you?’_ Avoiding his prosecutive stare, Mark gives a slow nod; more or less. Donghyuck closes his eyes and sighs. _‘I don’t want to meet this Ten person anymore.’_

“ _Yeoreobun_!” Mr. Smith claps loudly, interrupting the class murmur. “ _Yeong-eo sueob sigan-iya_ ; It’s English time!”

He assigns the class into small groups to practice today’s discussion topic. “ _Wanjeonhan_ ,” (“Perfect”) Donghyuck grins, and gestures Mark closer to his desk. “Canada-boy, _dowajuseyo._ ” (“Come help.”)

Mark scoffs, _“Kkadaloun_ ” (“Bossy”), and Donghyuck’s brows raise threateningly.

“When is your birthday?” he demands in English.

“W-What?” At first, confused by the context and the accent, Mark doesn’t even realize it’s English. “My birthday? Uh…” He tries to remember the word. “Oh! _Pal-wol._ ” (“August.”)

He barely manages to finish his sentence when Donghyuck snaps, “ **June**!” and points a menacing finger. “ _Janglodeul-eul jonjunghasibsio_.” (“Respect your elders.”)

When they break for lunch later, Renjun does, in fact, get teased mercilessly about how much he must _love_ Donghyuck (since apparently Renjun talks about Donghyuck all the time, huh?)… despite being Donghyuck’s elder. See, Donghyuck doesn’t _make_ the rules, but he clearly sees no need to follow them either. In other words, _he’s a damn hypocrite_.

-o0o-

Mark feels a little apprehensive when he walks into the Korean for Non-Natives’ classroom, where the redhead and dark-haired boy sit off to one side.

He tried to nonchalantly follow Renjun to the back of the classroom, but unfortunately, Kwon-nim did not forget about Mark’s special seating arrangement. She cleared her throat, standing in front of his designated desk, and waited for him to join her with a knowing smile.

Good news, she says, Mark has graduated to a new workbook. “Now, you get to sit right _here_ ,” she emphasized, very specifically patting that front-most desk, “to work on it without getting distracted by your peers.” Mark tried not to look too ecstatic.

He knows it’s for the better – he needs to improve his Korean as fast as he can – but it sucks having to sit all by himself when he can hear the laughter he’s missing out on directly behind him.

Although, he’s not completely alone at the front of the classroom.

As absolutely _invigorating_ as the little lines and circles of hangul are – truly the most _exciting_ thing Mark has ever experienced - it’s difficult to concentrate on tracing for an entire hour without pause. So occasionally, Mark _does_ pause. And he looks around. And he notices things. Trivial things, like how many desks are in the room (12), or the way Kwon-nim pouts her mouth when she’s working on the computer, or the way a certain redheaded boy throws his head back whenever he laughs.

Yeah, Mark can’t help but glance over at them every once in a while (‘ _Yuta and Sicheng’_ , Ten had called them), where they sit in the row diagonal to his. It’s not like he’s nervous, necessarily, and Mark’s too experienced with this stuff to be scared, but he feels the need to keep checking on them anyway just in case they’re going to… well, he doesn’t know what they’re going to do. Mark isn’t sure what to expect from them, so it’s safest to be alert, he thinks. He doesn’t want to be surprised by a spitball or something. (What does bullying even look like in Korea?)

But they actually don’t even look his way.

For the most part, they sit there reading or writing or engaging in low conversation. Once in a while the dark-haired boy must say something humorous because the redhead (Yuta? Sicheng?) bursts into laughter as if it’s the funniest thing he has ever heard. And he’ll reach over to hug the dark-haired boy, leaning his head onto his shoulder contently. Or, when the boy is busy reading, the redhead will sometimes play with his hair. And when the redhead isn’t touching him, he’ll sit there and watch the dark-haired boy likes he’s appreciating a piece of art, or something.

Mark can’t tell if they’re dating or if this is just normal friendly behaviour in Korea. (He’s seen more hugging in his week-and-a-half in Seoul than he probably has in his entire North American life up to this point.) But, the point is that they seem entertained enough not to bother with Mark. That’s a good thing. Gradually, Mark feels himself relax a little.

The next day ends up being equally unremarkable.

It seems like Kwon-nim has assigned them a quiz – Renjun is sitting at a desk in the empty left row completing one as well – and they focus on that for just about the entirety of the class. So Mark stops feeling the need to keep tabs on them so often, and it’s become much easier to concentrate on his hangul letters today. (He gets to trace actual words now; much progress, much wow).

At one point, when Mark does look over, the dark-haired boy catches his eye. Mark’s first instinct screams _‘oh shit’_ , he’s not sure whether he should turn away really fast or try and apologize... But the dark-haired boy doesn’t get angry. To Mark’s surprise, he actually _smiles_ , and it doesn’t look unkind. (To be honest he looks kind of pretty when he smiles, the way it plumps the apples of his cheeks.)

So Mark starts wondering if he’s misinterpreted things. Maybe he overreacted before. Maybe he’s just being paranoid. Maybe they’re not nearly as interested in him as he thought they were. Honestly, that would be really great.

During the last fifteen minutes of class, Kwon-nim always seems to turn a blind eye towards the class antics. It’s become kind of a routine for Mark to sneak over to the back of the classroom and be welcomed with a little cheer, and he knows that Kwon-nim sees it happening, but she doesn’t comment. Maybe she sympathizes with Mark’s social situation after all.

“Eyy, bro, _welcome_!” Lucas greets him with a high-five as Mark settles in next to Renjun.

“Oh! Yeah,” Yangyang flips through his notebook and rips out a lined page, “we made you a present, kind of.” He leans over his desk to try and give it to Mark; Renjun grabs it instead to make his life a little easier, before he pulls something.

Then Ten, Lucas, and Yangyang go quiet, fixating him with alarming anticipation (though Renjun seems like he could care less), and Mark feels the slightest bit nervous when he looks at the paper.

It’s a sketch: At the forefront are a few little characters having a party, each of them wearing a shirt with his classmates’ names written on the front (Mark notices that the one with the ‘Yangyang’ shirt has a pair of silly fake-mustache glasses sketched onto his face – probably against the real Yangyang’s will, he thinks). In the background, there’s an island far away with a little person standing there, watching the party with a tear dripping down its cheek – there’s a helpful _‘This is Mark’_ written with an arrow pointing at the sad-faced character, in case it wasn’t obvious.

At the top of the sketch, written in big block letters, is the phrase “Wish you were here!”, though Mark can’t help but notice the small _“lol, loser”_ penciled in underneath (he has a feeling he knows exactly who is responsible for that part of the otherwise positive message).

“Basically we made like a postcard,” Yangyang grins. “You know, like, when someone goes on a vacation, you can send a postcard like this. It’s like that. You know, ‘cause like, you have to sit, like, way over there.”

Lucas reaches over and points at the island. “That’s you,” he says, to make sure it’s absolutely clear.

Renjun sighs and gives a sympathetic look. “ _Naneun igeosgwa amu gwanlyeon-i eobs-eossda,_ ” (“I had nothing to do with this”), he mumbles.

“Liar!” Yangyang shouts, “You signed the back too!”

“ _Naneunhaji anh-assda!_ ” (“I did not!”) _“Dangsin-eun nae seomyeong-eul wijohaessseubnida!_ ” (“You faked my signature!”)

Sure enough, on the back of the paper is written ‘Love: Ten, Lucas, Yangyang, _and Renjun_ ’ (but the latter name is in messy handwriting that seems rather unlike Renjun’s and a lot more like Lucas’s).

“Well?” Ten leans over the desk with his chin nested in his hands. “You love it, right?”

And, well, yeah, Mark can’t help but laugh along with them. The painfully authentic comic makes him feel a little lonely, but it makes him happy that they would put effort into this kind of thing in the first place. “Wait, whose idea was this?”

Lucas beams at him proudly. “Ten did the art, though,” Yangyang adds, “he’s a really good draw-er.”

“You mean ‘ _artist’_ ,” Ten corrects.

Yangyang sticks out his tongue. He repeats, slowly and emphasized, “ _Draw-er._ ”

Ignoring the chaos that erupts behind them, Renjun hands Mark his phone with the translation app opened. _‘Are you mad?’_ , he asks, his eyes round with concern.

“No, _ani!_ ” Mark reassures him brightly. Renjun seems relieved and shares a small smile in return. It’s sweet how Renjun always double-checks on his feelings, Mark wouldn’t have expected it from the sharp-tongued stranger he’d met on the first day. He’s learned that Renjun can be both spiky and soft at once, and Mark thinks that his duality is adorable.

Mark turns back to Ten – who is still passionately arguing that artistry is not the same thing as furniture, he is not a _drawer_ , stop comparing him to storage space – and asks, “Are Thai people like, naturally good artists, then?”

Ten stops and stares at him. Slowly, that signature teasing smile tugs at his lips. “Mark, are you trying to make stereotypes?”

“What?” Mark’s eyes widen. “No! I just mean like, like, I don’t know, like how they say that Asians are supposed to be good at math-”

“Yeah, a stereotype.” (It's tempting to remind him that Thais are Asian too, but he holds his tongue.)

“-so maybe Thai people are good at art, or something? Like, it's in their blood? Sort of?” ...Okay, yeah, now Mark is realizing how dumb that sounds. It was supposed to be a compliment, sort of.

“I mean, maybe,” Ten shrugs. “I dunno. It's not like my biology is Thai.”

There’s a very long pause while Mark waits for him to laugh. Ten just stares back at him. “But… you _are_ Thai.”

“No, like I was born in Thailand,” he says, and he sounds completely serious. “But technically I’m Chinese, sort of.”

Mark waits for the punchline. It doesn’t come. His eyes grow wide, his mind is blown. “You’re _Chinese_?!”

“ _Naneun siljelo taegug salam-ibnida_ ,” Lucas says (“ _I’m_ Thai though”). He leans his head from one side to the other, squints his eyes and adds, “Kind of. Only half.”

Mark turns in shock. “ _What?_ Wait, so you and Ten can speak Thai with each other?”

“Oh, no, I don’t speak Thai.”

It takes a moment for Mark to compute this. “…Wait, then what _do_ you speak?”

“Cantonese.”

Mark pauses. Sure, he had geography class back in elementary and high school, but it was _Canadian_ geography. He doesn’t actually know much about the rest of the world. “What’s Cantonese?”

“ _Tto daleun jung-gug-eoibnida,_ ” Renjun explains (“It’s another Chinese language”).

“Ohhh,” Mark nods, putting the pieces together. “’Kay, so then you guys all speak Cantonese?”

“ _Ani.”_ (“No.”) _“Ulineun mandalin-eoleul hal su issseubnida._ ” (“We speak Mandarin.”)

Silence.

Evidently enjoying the confusion, Yangyang perks up. “I’m from Taiwan!”

Mark spins to him. “I thought you said you were from Germany?!” Cracking on the last syllable, Mark’s voice sounds oddly betrayed.

Yangyang rolls his eyes, scoffing as if this should all be common sense. “Yeah, ‘cause like, I lived in Germany for a lot of years, but when I was born, I was born in Taiwan. Obviously.”

Oh. Mark is effectively _shook_.

At least Renjun takes pity, shaking his head sympathetically. “ _Gibun-i joh-ajimyeon deo dansun haejibnida._ ” (“If it makes you feel better, I’m more simple.”) “ _Naneun jung-gug-in-ibnida._ ” (“I’m only Chinese.”)

Thank goodness for that; Mark’s not sure if he can handle any more of this. “Wait…” His mental gears are whirring with an epiphany. “So does that mean everyone in this class is Chinese?”

Ten hesitates, tilts his head to one side (because technically _no_ but also sort of yes?), but eventually gives in and nods. “Yeah, sort of. Well, except for you and Yuta.” Oh, right, Mark remembers something about that from their conversation the other day. Where did Ten say he was from again? Japan? (Also, which one is Yuta, the redhead or the dark-haired boy? Mark still doesn’t know who’s who.)

From beside him, Renjun lets out a quiet giggle. “ _Mark, hangug-in-i aninga?_ ” (“Mark, aren’t you supposed to be Korean?”) Lips pursed, his eyes creasing in humor, “ _I modeun jung-gug salamdeul-i dangsinboda hangug-eoleul jalhaneun geos-i jogeum danghog seuleobseubnida._ ”

That’s a really long sentence, but Mark is pretty sure he understands what it means: ‘It’s a little embarrassing that all these Chinese people speak better Korean than you do, isn’t it?’

“ _Jeongmal jaemiss-eoyo_ ,” (“Very funny”) he answers flatly, shooting them all a glare when they crack up.

The bell rings, sparing Mark from any further teasing ( _good timing_ , he thinks). He walks back to his front desk to close his workbook and stuff it into his binder, lost in thought about what the lesson might be for gym class next period, then realizing that he forgot to ask Renjun how his quiz went. Oops… too late now.

He’s ready to step out when he remembers – oh shit, his pens! Duh, can’t forget those. So he backs himself up to his desk again, just as Kwon-nim calls, “Yuta!”

Mark sees the redhead pause halfway to the door, lips pursed in question. “ _Ne?_ ”

“ _Kon'ya anata no essei o saiten shimasu. Ashita shūsei o kakunin suru junbi o shite kudasai._ ”

Oh, hey, it’s that non-Korean-but-probably-still-Asian language that Mark was trying to figure out on the first day. At first he thought it was Chinese, but now he realizes that this dialogue doesn’t have enough “shh” sounds to be Mandarin (he’s overheard conversations between Renjun, Lucas, and Yangyang, and they always sound like they’re shushing each other when they speak Mandarin), so by process of elimination, this must be Japanese. Or wait, maybe it’s Cantonese, since apparently that’s also a language that people speak in this world. Does the redhead speak Cantonese?

“ _Hai. Arigato._ ”

Well, anyway. This means that the redhead is named Yuta, right? Because that was the name Kwon-nim called out (wasn’t it?), and the redhead was the one who reacted to it (the dark-haired boy is just standing nearby, shuffling his feet), so… it must be him. The redhead’s name is Yuta. That’s easier than referring to him as ‘the redhead’ all the time, so… good to know?

Mark doesn’t realize he’s staring until suddenly the redhead – _Yuta_ – is looking right back at him. _Ahh_ , shit, why does Mark keep doing that? This staring thing, it’s such a bad habit, it makes things so awkward…

He quickly turns away as if that makes his staring any less obvious (what’s the point? he already got caught), but it becomes a double take when he notices the redhead’s expression. Because surprisingly, Yuta is smiling at him. Or, well, it’s more of a smirk really, only the one corner of his lip pulled upwards, but Mark definitely prefers this over the sadistic grin he remembers.

Still smiling/smirking, the redhead nods his chin up at Mark in acknowledgement. And, well, that could probably be interpreted as a friendly greeting, right? So not wanting to be impolite, Mark decides to give him a small, shy smile in return.

It makes Yuta’s eyes light up. His smirk becomes a grin and he tilts his head back into a laugh, the type that feels a little contagious. Mark isn’t sure what’s so funny (and it seems neither is the dark-haired boy, who glances between them cluelessly), but he lets out a quiet chuckle of his own just to humor the older boy.

And, well, the whole thing seems like a positive interaction, right? So maybe Mark misjudged him. Maybe he was too quick to make assumptions. As the duo leaves the classroom, Mark wonders to himself if maybe Yuta’s not that bad after all.

…Oh wait, right, Mark stayed back for a reason: His pens. _Duh_. He needs to stop getting distracted so much.

There’s nothing on the desk, so he ducks underneath to scan the floor to find only its beige tiles (and a little dust-bunny or two). It’s not on any of the surrounding desks either. He walks to the back of the class where he sat with his new friends: There’s a loose paper on the ground – _oh hey,_ it’s the postcard, Mark wants to keep that – but no pens. Hmm…

Kwon-nim notices him poking around and frowns. “ _Dangsin-eun mwongaleul chajgo issseubnikka?_ ” (“Are you looking for something?”)

“Yeah,” Mark answers in English. “I can’t find my pencil case… It’s like, a few pens and one pencil and one highlighter or whatever, and I put them in an elastic so that I don’t lose them… except… well…”

“Except you lost them.”

“Yeah.”

Kwon-nim shakes her head with a sigh. “I haven’t noticed anything. I can ask the cleaning lady to keep an eye out for it, but you’re going to be late for class if you stay any longer. Just borrow a pen from a friend, today.”

Mark’s shoulders sink. “Right…” But that’s not the problem, honestly. Those pens were from back home. He knows it’s a really insignificant thing to worry about, they’re just _pens_ , but… Forced to cope with a foreign country, with its foreign culture, with his sudden foreign status, this feels like Mark has lost another part of Canada that he’d tried to cherish.

Very reluctantly, he abandons his search, and leaves the pens – and their reminder of home – behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **July 31st, 2020; 2:13am**
> 
> This chapter was 10k, so I chose to split it in two and move one of the scenes to chapter 3 instead. It shouldn’t change much.  
> In the past, I’ve had issues with consistency in my stories; thus, to try to prevent that, I created a doc that I can make notes in and keep track of the little details in this story and my plans for its future.  
>  _The doc has 17k words._ It has 45 pages so far. What the fuck is wrong with me.
> 
> Admittedly, I experience somewhat crippling perfectionism, lol. The reason these chapters take longer than they should is because for every hour I spend writing, I spend another (or two) editing. The amount of times I’ve deleted things, and the many minutes I spend on word choice – should it be a _glimpse_ of red hair, or a _flash?_ – ahh, it’s so pointless! And don’t get started on the amount of research I do regarding the most insignificant details – like the mechanisms of a locker-lock, which I barely ended up using anyway… I feel like I waste so much time with this stuff, lol.
> 
> I really appreciate all the support you readers gave me for chapter 1. It was extremely motivating and I’m so grateful for all of your comments! I hope this chapter was enjoyable for you. ♥
> 
> **August 11th, 2020; 12:36am**
> 
>  ** _Please read this important correction:_**  
>  A really wonderful reader explained to me that, in Thailand, most people are in fact of Chinese descent. Thus, when Ten stated that he isn't _actually_ Thai, this was a misunderstanding on my part because the Thai identity is more cultural rather than ethnic (provided that I properly understood their explanation).  
> I've since gone back and changed that part of the story, so hopefully it's all better now.
> 
> Because I have not personally been to Asia, it is difficult for me to try to celebrate these amazing cultures without stereotyping, appropriating, or making errors. That being said, I don't think we should shy away from trying to learn about or portray them in our stories as if culture is something we should ignore or fear, provided that we acknowledge our lack of expertise and attempt to correct any mistakes we make. This is something that is _very_ important to me.  
> Thus, please, if you notice these kinds of errors, I would really appreciate if you could (respectfully) point them out to me so I can make corrections, and I sincerely apologize if any of my depictions are incorrect or ignorant - I promise it is not intentional. I invite criticisms, so don't be shy!
> 
> Sorry for the long A/N, and thank you so much for your support!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October 9th, 2020; 3:27am**
> 
> Lol, long time no see? _Sorry._
> 
> It’s a long story, but allow me to summarize: Remember how I mentioned [my stupidly excessive doc of notes](https://imgur.com/a/Y5Q9hdA) that I made for this story? It has reached 65 pages and 27k words. And… _yeeeeaahh……_ I get it, I admit it’s a bit obsessive. And compulsive. And…… Oh. Wait- shit, hold up- _what?_
> 
> Haha so I was recently diagnosed with OCD. 🤡 I guess that explains a lot.
> 
> Basically, I spent the last few months editing and re-editing and then deleting and then re-writing and then editing some more, obsessing over things like whether it should be “It’s hard being a foreigner” or “Being a foreigner is hard”. _No joke._ I spent hours agonizing about every single sentence and re-wrote the same scenes too many times. I think it’s time for me to _stop._
> 
> Thank you for having waited patiently. It’s not perfect – I’m trying to realize that nothing ever will be – but I worked hard on it and I hope that you’ll be able to enjoy the chapter nonetheless.
> 
> Also Mark and Yuta actually exchange more than three words of dialogue this time. _Wow._ Absolutely _groundbreaking._ And to think, it only took 17k words to get a real interaction… but that’s still not as we’ve waited for NCT interactions, so I guess us NCTzens are used to this shit. _(Give love to NCT 2020 btw.)_

It’s hard being a foreigner. Everything’s different and unexpected and, like, _foreign_. You know? And sometimes Mark’s not sure if he’s doing this right; but seriously, he swears he’s trying his best. He’s trying his best to fit in, to catch up, to make some semblance of a life for himself in Korea (8154 kilometres away from what he used to call home) but… it’s hard. Honestly, it’s _really_ hard. Shit, Mark spends most of his time struggling just to meet the bare minimum.

Attempting to learn anything from his Korean-based classes has been a complete waste of time so far. Mark just sits there everyday, bored and unproductive, doodling clumsy squiggles across his lined paper ( _“It’s supposed to be a dog,”_ he said – and now Donghyuck is convinced that Canadian dogs are obese, stilt-legged, sasquatch-like monstrosities), or daydreaming about really dumb things like whether Korean parrots have an accent when they speak English ( _seriously,_ _do they?_ ). Consequently, when he gets home later, Mark has to spend hours manually translating his textbooks and searching desperately through Wikipedia to catch up with everything he _should_ have learned in school.

It’s frustrating, it’s exhausting, part of him wonders whether it’s even worth trying. Even the struggle of conveying his rant in broken Korean left Mark completed drained, his overheated forehead dropping down against the lunch table.

But on that fateful day, Renjun _– an absolute intellectual_ – made an inspired suggestion. _‘Can’t you ask your teachers for an accommodation?’_ he’d asked through the translator. His eyes were all round and genuine, but all Mark remembers is that there was a grain of rice sticking to his bottom lip. _‘Ask them if you can study like that during class time instead.’_

Mark stared for a minute or so. He was caught up picturing how embarrassed Renjun would be when he noticed the crumb on his face – _aw_ , _cute_ – so it took him a while to register the statement. As soon as he did, his endeared smile fell into a gape. Like no, wait a second, _is he for real?_ Ask his teachers for permission to use his phone in class? _Seriously?!_ They’d never agree to that!

When he’d turned to Donghyuck for agreement, the other boy just shrugged and said, _“What do you have to lose?”_

Well _, his dignity_ , Mark suggested – but Donghyuck eagerly reminded him that he doesn’t have any to begin with. (It’s at times like this that Mark wonders whether it’s culturally acceptable to hit him.)

So finally this morning, after a few of Donghyuck’s aggressively nagging pep talks, Mark mustered up the courage to put the plan into action. He clenched his fists to subdue his nerves, took a deep breath, and _tried_.

Now spread across his desk are copies of the syllabi for his history, social studies, and math classes. Every week’s topics are listed in chronological order so Mark can keep track of what he needs to study (i.e., what he needs to google). This is going to make Mark’s life sooo much easier – and all he had to do was ask.

Forcibly immersed into a world of hangul and touchiness and food that’s way spicier than it looks, being a foreigner in Korea is really hard. But fuck, Mark Lee is _trying_. And for the first time since he started school here, brandishing his translated syllabi in hand, Mark lets himself feel optimistic.

The fourth bell rings and when Mr. Smith beckons him over, Mark’s practically skipping to the front of the class. The teacher is busy leafing through the papers on his desk at first, clearly trying to find something amongst the organized disorganization – but he has to stop when an unignorable ray of sunshine beams up and blinds him. “You seem cheerful,” he comments, still squinting from the brightness. Maybe one coffee this morning wasn’t enough.

Mark grins at him. “Yeah, I actually feel pretty good today to be honest.” He’s already tipping on his toes, ready to share his story to someone who’ll understand him. “So like, you know how I don’t understand, like, _any_ Korean? But my classes are pretty much all in Korean, so it’s been sort of, like, a _big_ problem?” He bounces to the same tempo as he speaks. “So, basically, someone I know sort of helped me out and-”

The teacher winces, holding a hand up to pause him. “I’m sure it’s a really exciting story, but I do need to start class soon...”

Oh, right _._ Mark’s smile deflates. He nods along because, _duh_ , that totally makes sense, it’s not like Mr. Smith is his babysitter or something. Just being Anglophone doesn’t make him special.

“That being said.” The teacher leans back against the desk, crosses his legs. “I wanted to make sure I’d have the chance to talk to you first.” He looks up at Mark. “Remember what I told you last time? That I want to challenge you?”

Yeah, Mark remembers. “Like, with an assignment, right? You said you needed a few days to come up with something so…” His mouth pauses in its ‘o’ shape. “Wait, does that mean…?”

Mr. Smith smiles. “I have an idea for you. Tell me if it’s something you’re capable of.”

 _No pressure_ , huh? Mark nods anyway, clenching and unclenching his fists to ease his nervousness.

Mr. Smith picks up a paper from his desk – oh, it’s the one he was searching for earlier – and Mark immediately recognizes his handwriting.

_‘Human beings are afraid of finality. It’s why we get emotional at a graduation, or why we’re disappointed when our favourite show reaches its last episode. We don’t like to think of endings or doors closing; instead, we prefer to focus on new beginning. When we think of important life events, we think about building careers, chasing dreams, starting a family… but we avoid thinking too much about the most permanent milestone of our entire lives: The finality of death.’_

Oh god- he’s forced to look away from his crooked t’s and the e’s that look too much like o’s. The essay feels so cringey now, super pretentious, especially now that Donghyuck’s clowned him for it. How did Mark even think this was good?

“It’s a unique perspective,” Mr. Smith says. He flips the paper over and skims it between both hands. “Honestly, when I told you to choose your own topic, I was not expecting a philosophical thesis...” His smile slants. “That being said, I’m not disappointed.”

That sounds like a good thing. A little pride curves Mark’s lips.

“What I find the most interesting,” the teacher says, “is how, even though you’ve handed me an essay, this reads more like a story. You’ve made your arguments by appealing to our emotions and our shared experiences, rather than through logic.”

He looks up at Mark like he’s expecting agreement but Mark just stares back. Um… Is it a compliment? If his paper really did appeal to ‘shared experiences’ or whatever, it wasn’t intentional; he just wrote what was on his mind. Mark says thank you anyway to be polite (but it’s obvious he has no idea what they’re talking about).

The teacher smiles humorously, gives a small shake of his head, and pushes himself up from the desk. “So, Mark. I’m sure you had to leave a lot of yourself behind when you moved here.”

Mark has a feeling that Mr. Smith speaks from experience.

“A lot of things are changing right now, but that doesn’t mean you need to change who you are as a person.” Mr. Smith reaches for a notebook across the desk and slides it closer with his fingertips. It’s one of those cheap ones, the kind with a paper cover that can get folded or ripped if he’s not careful with it. Which sucks, ‘cause Mark’s not great at being careful.

Mr. Smith leans forward to match Mark’s height. “I want you to take this project as an opportunity to appreciate yourself. You have a lot of good qualities, Mark. I’m hoping that integrating them into this assignment will help you validate your strengths.” He holds out the notebook until Mark finally takes it, brows furrowed. “Does that make sense?”

“No.”

Donghyuck leans into the screen, squinting at the Korean output. He looks back up at Mark, shakes his head and repeats with emphasis: “ _Noo.”_

Mark changes the phone’s output into Mandarin, passes it across the lunch table for Renjun to evaluate, and sighs. _“Mollayo.”_ (“I don’t know.”) “I don’t get what he’s asking me to do.”

Donghyuck doesn’t understand the English part but he _does_ understand the whine that follows it, so he nods enthusiastically. _“Mal-i an dwae.”_ (“It doesn’t make sense.”)

It’s validating to know that at least Mark isn’t the only one. Even Renjun looks confused. _‘It’s a story?’_ The app reads. _‘How long is it?’_

It doesn’t _have_ to be a story, Mark explains. _‘It just needs to be creative, somehow.’_

Donghyuck is unconvinced. _“…Iyagiibnida.”_ (“So… _a story_.”)

“ _Chang-uijeog-in eseiga doel su issseubnida,”_ Renjun huffs. (“It could be a creative essay instead.”)

“Ha!” Donghyuck laughs too loud, throwing his head back just for the show. When he’s had his fill he leans across the table, looks Renjun dead in the eye, and enunciates: _“Eseineun jiluhabnida.”_ (“Essays are _boring_.”)

The glare Renjun sends looks like he’s considering violence; Donghyuck’s mocking grimace welcomes it.

Mark interrupts their death match by dropping the phone between them. It clatters ungently and manages to divert their attentions. _‘It’s supposed to be between ten and fifteen pages,’_ the screen reads.

While Mark waits for them to read, he searches his brain for a few Korean words. He knows they’re hidden in there somewhere… Oh! Mark loudly smacks the table, startling the other boys. He grins at them and exclaims, _“Sib, yeol daseos!”_ (“Ten, fifteen!”) He can’t think of the word for ‘pages’ right now, but he’s still satisfied.

Mark knows he’s way too proud for someone who just barely managed to count, but Donghyuck praises him anyway and Mark is a suck for positive reinforcement.

Then Renjun laughs and says something in Korean, which makes Donghyuck immediately swing around to retaliate. Mark has to stretch to reach the phone between them because they’re too enraptured in whatever they’re arguing about to help. They’re like two cats, Mark thinks, threatening and hissing at each other but never baring their claws. 

Once Mark has typed his message, he grabs the notebook he’d haphazardly thrown to the side and holds it up in front of them, waving it until he’s regained their attention. _‘I’m supposed to include everything I do in this notebook, like my ideas and rough copies. Mr. Smith says he wants to see my thought process.’_ Mark turns through the empty pages and reiterates the teacher’s instructions. _‘I can write anything I want, but it has to overlap with my own life somehow...’_

Renjun hums. _“Dangsin-ui salmgwa gyeobchyeo jyeoyahabnida…”_ (“It has to overlap with your life…”)

 _“Geugeos-eun amu uimiga eobs-seubnida!”_ (That doesn’t mean anything!”) Donghyuck groans. _“Jaseojeon-ieoyahanayo?”_

Mark doesn’t understand so Renjun translates for him. “Oh, no,” Mark shakes his head, “He said it can’t be an autobiography.”

Donghyuck throws his hands up with a cry of anguish.

Renjun frowns, re-reading the instructions Mark gave. _‘What were his exact words?’_

Mark scrunches his nose. It’s not that easy to remember, the instructions left his brain as quickly as soon as they’d hit his eardrums. His taps his fingers against the table. The unintelligible Korean background noise doesn’t make it easy to concentrate on his English.

 _‘I have to take this project as an opportunity to appreciate myself,’_ he types. _‘It has to be something creative, but it needs to be personal. It needs to overlap with my life somehow. It can’t be an autobiography.’_ He pauses, taps his fingers, and lets out an “ah” when he remembers. _‘He also said something about integrating my strengths… I think. I don’t know.’_

Donghyuck leans over and tries to read upside-down, but the output is in Mandarin to make it easier for Renjun. He groans, sitting back down impatiently. He waits for Renjun’s grip to loosen and as soon as Renjun looks up, frowning thoughtfully into space, Donghyuck snatches the phone right out of his hands.

His lips twist. “ _Geuge daya?”_ (“That’s everything?”)

 _“Moleugess-eoyo. Daebubun.”_ (“I don’t know. Mostly.”) As much as Mark can remember, at least. Donghyuck snorts, tossing the phone back at him like he’s given up.

Still staring inquisitively somewhere above their heads, Renjun asks, “ _Insaeng-ui eoneu bubun-eul chamjo hal geongayo?”_

Mark stares at him. Donghyuck grabs the phone from where he’d ungracefully dropped it and thrusts it back into Renjun’s hands, snapping at him. For a moment they seem to forget Mark exists, bickering with each other in sharp Korean (Mark has gotten used to it by now), until Renjun finally translates his question. _‘Which part of your life are you going to reference?’_

Again, Mark just stares. He understands the English but not the context. Renjun sighs, presses his finger to beginning of the sentence, and adds a few more words. _‘The story needs to overlap with your life. Which part of your life are you going to reference?’_

When Mark’s expression still doesn’t change, Renjun looks like he might smack him. But it’s different this time: Mark understands the question, but he doesn’t know the answer. _“Mollayo.”_ (“I don’t know.”) He doesn’t even know where to start.

Renjun’s temper always dies down as quickly as it lights. He tilts his head, brown eyes fixed curiously. _‘What is important to you?’_

There are probably lots of things – _there must be_ – but Mark’s brain is pulling a blank. He looks down at the table (maybe focusing on something plain will help clear his head) and suddenly remembers the cheese sandwich that he abandoned after just two bites. (Ironically, Mark often forgets to eat lunch during lunch period.)

Donghyuck is paying attention again, but not for the sake of an insult. He leans forward into Mark’s field of vision, brows a bit creased, and his tone is less sassy than it normally is. “ _Geugeos-eun mueos-ideun doel su issseubnida,”_ (“It can be anything”) he prompts. _“Chwimi, jaeneung, mulgeon-i doel su issseubnida.”_ (“A hobby, a talent, an object…”)

Mark chews his sandwich.

“ _Jung-yohan gieog-i doel su issseubnida?_ ” (“It can be a memory?”) Renjun offers.

It’s awkward with both of them so focused on Mark. He’s not a huge fan of eye contact in general, so Mark stares at the cheese sandwich like it holds all life’s answers. Maybe it _does_. Maybe the world really is as simple as a slice of cheese squeezed between two breads. Maybe this cheese sandwich is a metaphor for life, or, like… yeah.

Suddenly he swallows a bite that’s too big: Mark breaks into a coughing fit, folding over the table and knocking his fist against his chest to clear his airway – but Donghyuck and Renjun just wait for him to finish, completely ignoring that Mark almost just _died_ from a cheese sandwich. It doesn’t make things less awkward.

Mark realizes they’re not planning on changing the topic so he gives in, shaking his head in irritation. “I don’t know, ‘kay? My brain’s just like, not working right now.”

Donghyuck doesn’t react but Renjun nods right away. He leans over to translate, Donghyuck lets out an “Ah” at the explanation, and then they look at each other. Donghyuck is frowning; Renjun shakes his head, sends back a small smile.

Mark hasn’t known them long enough to understand these covert communications, but he knows they’re talking about him. It doesn’t feel good.

His face heats. He averts his gaze to the ceiling to resist glaring or rolling his eyes. “It’s not a big _deal_ , guys,” he complains, voice laced with irritation. He wants to add something else to convince them but shit, Mark doesn’t even know what they’re gossiping about in the first place. He punctuates the conversation with a bite of bread and cheese.

For a few seconds, the only dialogue are the murmurs of the cafeteria, the sounds of people chatting or laughing or scratching their pens into tired notebooks.

Donghyuck shakes his head; his shoulders follow the motion, as if physically shaking off the tension. “ _Dangsin-eun geugeos-eul al-anael geos-ibnida,_ ” (“You’ll figure it out”) he says. That’s the last Mark hears about it.

Donghyuck grabs Mark’s phone from Renjun, swatting the boy’s hands just for the sake of it. _“Deo jung-yohan geos-eun...”_ (“More importantly…”) he mumbles as he types, then accusingly shows the screen. _‘When are you going to stop stealing my pens?’_

Renjun snorts and Mark’s jaw drops. “What?! You’re the one who gave it to me!”

Donghyuck tsks in disapproval, like a parent scolding a child. _‘Did you know that theft is a crime in Korea?’_ First he’s smirking but then suddenly – ‘ _oh fuck_ ’ – suddenly his eyes brighten. Donghyuck’s front teeth poke through the little smile he makes whenever he’s thinking of something evil and Mark _knows_.

The boy shifts his knee across the bench so he can twist and face Mark fully. And all Mark can do is watch. He never knows what to expect from this classmate so he tightens his grip around his bread and braces himself. (Renjun is content to just sit and watch.)

Keeping his gaze trained on Mark’s face, Donghyuck leans over and very _casually_ reaches for the juice pack on Mark’s end of the table. Mark makes a move to stop him but, well, he has a sandwich in his hands; Donghyuck snatches the drink faster than he can react. “ _Nae chimmug-e daehan biyong-eul jibulhaeyahabnida.”_

Mark tries to grab it back but Donghyuck stretches the juice out of reach, his eyes widened innocently. Mark throws his head back and whines, “ _Ahh_ , I don’t know what that meeeans!”

He’s not sure if Donghyuck can understand the words but from the way Donghyuck smiles, breaking the little straw free from its plastic, Mark knows he gets the sentiment.

Renjun takes pity. He reaches for Mark’s phone (Mark doesn’t even flinch because Renjun is _trustworthy_ and not Satan’s spawn). Renjun types what Donghyuck said and, with a sympathetic wince, holds it up for Mark to read. _‘You’ll have to pay for my silence.’_

With his big, cutesy eyes never breaking contact, Donghyuck stabs the straw through the juice pack and takes a long, deliberate sip.

Once again: It’s at times like this that Mark wonders whether it’s culturally acceptable to hit him.

-o0o-

It may be boring sometimes, but Mark admits that tracing hangul – pen pressing slowly across the dotted lines, eyes narrowed to make sure the little circles close evenly – can actually be pretty relaxing.

Sure, it gets repetitive to spend an hour doing the same thing over and over again, but the simplicity is a welcomed break from the overload of other classes. And Mark’s swears he’s getting better at it: His lines are a little less shaky and he doesn’t need to reference the examples as often as he did before.

Yes, Mark is well aware that this is first-grade work – the stuff that _seven-year-olds_ excel at – but dotting a period at the end of a successfully-written Korean sentence, no matter how simple it is, has him bursting with pride.

He smiles at no one, triumphantly twirling Donghyuck’s pen between his fingers, and physically pats himself on the back. (It’s not like anyone else is there to do it for him.)

Mark only has a few pages left before he’s finished with this workbook, and then he gets to progress to book number _four._ He has no idea how many books there are in total, but level four is better than three. Mark feels like he’s _accomplishing_ something. It might be small, but it feels good.

It’s probably _because_ he’s so focused that, when he hears a screech from the chair beside him, Mark nearly has a heart attack. Or, maybe it’s the flash of red that makes him jump out of his skin. Both the sound and the sight are too sudden (and a little scary).

Yuta sits down backwards in the chair beside Mark’s. He rests his chin comfortably on its back like he does this everyday, and flashes a smile that shows his teeth. “ _Annyeong_ ~”

Today Yuta’s hair is free from its ponytail. The vivid strands frame him so casually that it almost makes him look _sort of_ less intimidating… Or maybe, Mark thinks, the scarlet creates an optical illusion, accentuating the colour of his lips to make his bright, pearly whites impossible to ignore.

Mark blinks. “Uhh… _Annyeong…?_ ” He turns around completely unsubtly to check Yuta’s usual spot over his shoulder. Just to make sure he’s not hallucinating or something. But nope, there’s only the dark-haired boy – oh right, his name must be Sicheng – watching them curiously from where he always sits, diagonally behind Mark. And yet, for some reason… instead of being seated at Sicheng’s right like he normally would, Yuta is here. Beside Mark. Smiling at him like a friend. _Why?_

“ _Je ileum-eun Yuta-ibnida,_ ” (“My name is Yuta”) he says. His dark eyes shine brightly, void of his usual mockery except for the slightest crease in the outer corners. He seems completely comfortable. Does he ever get nervous?

If not, Mark makes up for it. He’s awkward enough for the both of them as he nods stiffly. “ _Al-a_.” (“I know.”)

Yuta raises his brows but he doesn’t seem surprised. Rather, judging by the slight quirk at the corner of his lips, he looks pleased that Mark knows his name even though they’ve never really spoken to each other. (Except for that time when Yuta stepped on his map.)

“ _Dangsin-eun Mark maj-a?_ ” (“You are Mark, right?”) Yuta sits up, arms loosely hugging the back of the chair. He tilts his head, voice too sweet: “ _Ulineun seololeul al-ayahandago saeng-gaghabnida!_ ” (“I think we should get to know each other!”)

Mark doesn’t move. He watches Yuta watch him in return, mouth set in a little, anticipating smile. It feels… _weird_. Mark can’t help but squint skeptically- but then look away, and then look back again, because he’s too uncomfortable with Yuta’s stare to keep his attention steady. “Uhhh… _Mueos-eul… algo sipseubnikka?_ ” he asks slowly. (“Uhh… What… do you… want to know?”)

Yuta laughs – probably because Mark sounds so painfully awkward. (He _feels_ painfully awkward.) When he looks up again, Yuta wears that gleam of amusement in his eyes that seems ever-present whenever Mark is around. But somehow, it’s… Mark frowns. _Hm._ Yuta’s expression seems… Ah, it’s hard to find the right word for it, because he _feels_ it more than he sees it. It seems… _stoic?_ In a way? That probably doesn’t make sense.

The thing is that, despite his smile, something about Yuta looks… too _focused_. Sort of. Or something like that. Like, even though this is (probably) supposed to be just a nice, casual conversation, Yuta’s gaze keeps switching from Mark’s eyes, to the curve of his mouth, to the dimples in his cheeks, to the furrow of his brows...

Yuta dances his feet under the chair like a giddy schoolgirl, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth. “ _Da malhaejwo!_ ” (“Tell me everything!”) His voice tastes like a sugar rush and, thrown off by the sourness he’s previously witnessed, Mark isn’t prepared to fight off cavities.

Obviously the request is too broad for Mark to answer on the spot, so after a few “uhh” and “umms”, the older boy offers a starting point, holding it up in his open palm. “ _Dangsin-eun kaenada chulsin-ibnikka?_ ” (“You’re from Canada, right?”)

Immediately, Mark’s eyes light up. “Huh? _Eotteohge al-ass-eo?_ ” (“How did you know?”) His caution is abandoned for enthusiasm at the thought of home; Mark doesn’t even notice how easily he lets his guard down.

Yuta gives a vague shrug, rolling his eyes like it’s an obvious question, and gestures for Mark to continue. And, well, Mark already figured out that Yuta is Japanese, so maybe it’s not shocking that Yuta knows where he’s from too.

So Mark answers eagerly. “ _Na geogiseo taeeonass-eo. Naneun pyeongsaeng geugos-eseo sal-assseubnida_ ,” (“I was born there. I’ve lived there all my life.”) Oh no, wait- He stops himself because that’s _technically_ not true, he lived in New York at one point. So Mark corrects the mistake with a shrugged, “ _Geoui._ ” (“ _Almost._ ”)

He knows it doesn’t really matter – Yuta won’t care that he lived in the US for a year, Mark doesn’t remember much of it anyway – but Mark hates lying. Even if it’s about something stupid like this, the concept of dishonesty reminds him of those times when his nanny scolded him into a time-out: it reminds him of how _guilty_ he used to feel, forced to sit against the wall until he recognized the weight of his mistakes, because how _dare_ he pretend that he didn’t eat the last cookie! And well… maybe this weirdly insistent honesty is a Canadian thing. But maybe it’s just a Mark Lee thing.

Yuta’s smile – in a way that looks more familiar – slants to one side. “ _Jeongmal maelyeogjeog-ibnida,”_ he says, clapping his hands slowly like he’s applauding a noble speech. (“Absolutely _fascinating._ ”)

Mark’s gaze discretely switches to Kwon-nim’s desk. She sits at her computer, focusing on the screen, and never looks up. Which means Mark’s on his own.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and reminds himself that, well… Yuta was acting kind of friendly yesterday, right? During that short minute before they left class. He’d paused and smiled, so Mark had smiled back, and it was kinda nice. Wasn’t it? And now Yuta is sitting here, making conversation and being friendly again. So… maybe Mark misjudged him. Maybe Yuta really _is_ trying to be nice. Maybe he’s clapping because he knows that Mark’s Korean isn’t good. Maybe Yuta is trying to encourage him. _Maybe?_

Mark hides away from Yuta’s line of sight, staring down the desktop as he sorts his thoughts. “Uhh…” Mark’s not really good with uncertainty. If there are too many options, his thoughts get all jumbled, so he’s not sure which route to take with all these potential interpretations. “Um…” He looks up sideways, unconsciously using the angle to hide his expression as he bites his lip. “ _Chungbun… habnikka?_ ” (“Is that enough?”)

There’s a gleam in his eyes. Yuta props his elbows up on the edge of the chair and cups his hands around his face, lips pouting like he’s holding back a smile. He shakes his head and, in slow-motion, emphasizing every syllable: “ _Deo-mal-hae-ju-se-yo._ ” (“Please, tell me **more**.”)

Mark swallows and tries to suppress the wary tickle in his gut. Maybe this sort of bluntness – reminiscent of the way Donghyuck first spoke to him – is normal in Korea. Or like, uh… Well, Korean intonation is really different from English – they speak in such expressive arpeggios compared to the monotone of the West (their animacy is a culture shock in itself) – so maybe Mark is overthinking it. He doesn’t want to overreact.

He turns his gaze upwards (it’s not easy to think when Yuta studies him so intently), mouth opening and closing as he tries to glue words into sentences. “Uhh, so… _Naneun…_ umm… _Naneun abeo… ji…?_ ” Yeeeah… Mark sighs and shakes his head. His level-three workbook hasn’t taught him to write memoirs yet, but he gives himself points for trying.

Instead he reaches for his phone, tucked safely within his binder because Kwon-nim likes to confiscate it sometimes. He taps his passcode into the screen then holds it up so Yuta can squint at the translation app. As soon as Yuta’s eyes clear with acknowledgement, Mark types: _‘My dad has to travel a lot for work. Recently he was transferred to Seoul, and so I had to move here with him.’_

Yuta sits up to read the translation, smiling like he’s surprised that Mark even offered it (the translation or the phone?). Dark irises skimming from the left of his sclera to the right, Yuta breathes a laugh through his nose. “Aww,” he coos, looking up with pouty lips. _“Dangsin-eun gananhan geos-ibnida.”_ (“You poor thing.”)

It, um… It comes off a bit condescending, but again, maybe Mark is misunderstanding Korean intonation. He shrugs off the feeling, catches the phone before Yuta drops it, and types a new message. _‘It’s okay. I had to move around a lot when I was a kid, so I’m used to it.’_ It’s short enough that he can just hold it up this time.

Yuta slowly nods, tilting his head up to the ceiling. He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingertip against his chin. “ _Geulaeseo dangsin-eun chinguga eobs-eoyo, ne?_ ” (“So you must be used to having no friends, hm?”) His tone of voice is level, casual, as his eyes flicker back to Mark’s reaction.

Mark winces. _Oof._ It’s a weird way to phrase it, but like… well, it’s not untrue. He opens his mouth, head tilting to one side until his gaze has fully dropped to his lap. He chuckles nervously as he searches for words – how do you respond to something like that? Now how do you respond to it in _Korean? –_ and twirls Donghyuck’s pen between his fingers to keep himself busy.

Yuta pushes up and turns the chair rightwise. He sits with his hands gripping the seat between his legs, lifting up its front and balancing on its back. “ _Dangsin-eun haggyoleul joh-ahabnikka?_ ” (“Do you like the school?”) he asks.

It’s an obvious shift in topic, and Mark’s hands relax in his lap. Watching his fingers wiggle, he shrugs. “Uh… _ye, nappeuji anhseubnida._ ” (“It’s alright.”)

Yuta hums, and nods his head. “ _Seoyang haggyoui gyoyug sujun-i hwolssin najdago deul-eossseubnida. Jigeum hangug haggyoe waseo jeongmal gamsahaeyahabnikka?_ ”

His fingers stop wriggling. It’s… too many words at once. Wow. Mark wonders what level workbook Yuta has reached, or if he even uses workbooks at all. He looks up without lifting his head. From the little smile that appears on Yuta’s face, Mark suspects that the he already knows what Mark’s about to say. “Umm… _Ihaega an dwaeyo._ ” (“I don’t understand.”)

The often-used, clearly-rehearsed catchphrase makes Yuta snort. He gestures for Mark’s phone and types his message.

‘ _I’ve heard that Western education is very low-quality. Right? They say that just one day in a Korean school is worth more than an entire year of American school.’_ Yuta’s gaze is focused on Mark’s face, waiting for a reaction. _‘You must be so grateful to be here.’_

“Uhh…”

Suddenly Yuta’s eyes light up like he’s thought of something clever. He erases the previous message before Mark even has time to comment. _‘It’s probably so difficult for you to get used to classes here. Can your brain even understand them?’_ His smile curls up impishly.

Mark isn’t sure whether Yuta is referring to his poor Korean or if he’s jabbing at Mark’s intelligence. That tickle in his gut becomes more of a squeeze. He doesn’t move, keeping his face blank and voice level. “ _Choeseon-eul dahabnida._ ” (“I try my best.”)

Yuta sniffs a laugh. Mark notices him glance over his shoulder where, behind them, Sicheng is watching quietly. He keeps his face neutral, but when he makes eye contact with the redhead, his dimples betray his neutral smile.

When Yuta turns around again, the way he looks at Mark – eyes narrowed, smirk deepening the bow between his lips and his nose – is a lot more like the redhead from Mark’s memories. “ _Chughahabnida._ ” (“Congratulations.”) There’s a clear tinge of sarcasm.

Mark fidgets, eyes pointedly fixed somewhere beside Yuta’s head. “Uh… _kamsahabnida._ ” (“Thanks.”) The conversation starts to feel less friendly.

Yuta tilts his head and suddenly asks, “ _Nugunga dangsin-ui mogsoliga isanghadago deul-eossseubnikka?_ ” (“Has anyone ever told you that your voice sounds weird?”) His cheery tone is eerily dissonant from the question.

Mark fiddles with his fingers. “Uhh… _naneun geuleohge saeng-gaghaji anhseubnikka…?”_ (“I don’t think so…?”)

“ _Geuleohseubnida._ ” (“It does.”) Yuta’s lips curve. “ _Dangsin-ui mogsoliga isanghage deullibnida._ ” (“Your voice sounds weird.”)

He thinks (hopes?) that Yuta is just talking about his accent. Because, yeah, Mark’s Canadian accent must make his Korean sound weird. He can’t seem to wrap his tongue around the pronunciations, the way even the simplest vowels suddenly sound so different… Oh, also, maybe the word ‘weird’ (‘ _isanghan’_ ) has a different connotation in Korean? Maybe the implication of “weird” is not an insult here – maybe it’s supposed to sounds neutral in Korean, or maybe it’s even a compliment.

“Um… _Kamsahabnida_ ,” Mark repeats. He watches the way Yuta’s head tilts back, each ‘ _ha’_ of his laugh its own distinct, punctuated syllable. Behind him, Mark notices the dark-haired boy giggling along too.

And that, Mark supposes, is the answer to his question. His lips press together, he lets his eyes fall closed... There’s no different connotation, is there? There were never any misinterpretations. Mark let his optimism misguide him – _again_ – because he’s an idiot who believes in second chances, and he’s too dumb and hopeful to ever learn his lesson. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and exhales any of his remaining confidence. Fuck, Mark feels tired.

Yuta props his elbow up on the desk and leans his face into his palm, seeming pleased with himself. “ _Canada-e daehae jasehi allyeojuseyo._ ” (“Tell me more about Canada.”) His voice has shifted back to that saccharine sweetness as if he genuinely cares about what Mark has to say.

Mark turns to him. He skips over the friendly exterior and admits the coolness in Yuta’s eyes, the way his smile doesn’t touch the corners. Yuta doesn’t even move; the redhead stares back, watching Mark watch him without any sign of discomfort. If anything, Yuta seems like he _enjoys_ the tension as he waits for Mark’s next move. Like a cat teasing a mouse.

Mark grabs the seat between his legs and pulls the chair closer to his desk to face the whiteboard. Without looking at Yuta, he shrugs and says in English: “There’s not much to say.”

Yuta’s dark eyes defocus, frowning as he processes the switch in language. And honestly… Mark can’t help a tiny smile. Watching from the corner of his eye without acknowledgement, it feels a bit satisfying to watch Yuta struggle for once, even if only for a moment.

Yuta’s brows are still furrowed as he brushes his bangs away (Mark notices his eyebrows have a slight red tinge, like maybe he dabbed on extra dye just to be thorough with his scarlet persona). Suddenly Yuta’s hand freezes, still pinning the strands between his fingers, and his lips slowly stretch into that cocky smile. He whips around until his knees are perpendicular to Mark’s and pushes forward just enough to breach Mark’s personal bubble. With his dark stare pressuring eye contact, Yuta tilts his head to one side. “ _Ne? Nani mo arimasen ka?”_

The words sound even more foreign to Mark than usual: It takes him a moment to realize that Yuta is speaking Japanese.

Yuta is leaning close enough to Mark’s ear that he doesn’t need to speak very loudly. _“Anata no kuni wa,_ ” he says – his voice is decidedly less sweet now, “ _anata to onaji kurai taikutsudenakereba narimasen.”_ Mark has no idea what that means but from the twist of his tone, it probably wasn’t very nice.

Yuta leans back into his seat with his arms crossed, smiling like he’s just won a challenge. And in a way, he _has_ ; he managed to one-up Mark at his own game. _Touche._

Mark doesn’t acknowledge him. He stares at the whiteboard and listens to Yangyang’s laugh. He hears Renjun’s voice whipping an insult right back at him, their conversations tinged with the “shh-shh” sounds of Mandarin that Mark can’t relate to. Even in a room of other foreigners, Mark feels _foreign._

He tugs his workbook back in front of him, slotting Donghyuck’s pen between his index and middle finger, and tries to remember what the hell he was doing earlier. The last thing he needs is for Yuta to escalate, so Mark decides to stay quiet and lets Yuta have his little victory – like a mouse that’s too tired to escape anymore.

Satisfied with Mark’s forfeit, Yuta gets back on track. “ _Dangsin-eun hangug-in-ingayo?_ ” (“You’re Korean, aren’t you?”) “ _Geuleom wae hangug-eoleul moshae?_ ” (“So why don’t you speak Korean?”)

Mark pretends not to care. He leans over his hangul workbook and flips the page. “ _Moleugess-eoyo_.” (“I don’t know.”)

The chair screeches forward. Yuta settles his head onto the middle of his desk, and looks up at Mark’s face from an angle the younger boy can’t hide from. “ _Bumonim-i galeuchyeo julmankeum singyeong sseuji anh-assseubnikka?_ ” (“Your parents didn’t care enough about you to teach you?”)

Mark shrugs. He circles the pen’s tip against the paper until it inks, then goes back to his tracing.

When it’s clear that Mark isn’t going to comment, Yuta leans back into his chair. He crosses his arms and carefully studies Mark’s profile – like an assessment – and it goes quiet (ignoring Lucas’s loud laugh from behind them).

Mark pretends to focus on his work and be totally super _unbothered_. But awkward silences make him nervous. He hopes Yuta can’t see the way his feet tiptoe anxiously under his seat, the way his breaths become a little uneven.

After what feels like an eternity, Yuta tilts his head and asks, “ _Dore Dore gabwass ni?_ ” (“You’ve been to Dore Dore?”)

Mark looks up. He takes a moment to repeat the sentence in his head and – nope, it still doesn’t make sense. He frowns. “What?”

The redhead’s expression stays neutral, casual. He points to the pen between Mark’s fingers. “ _Igeos-i Dore Dore kape-ui logoibnida. Gangnam kapeibnida._ ” (“That’s the logo for the Dore Dore café. That famous café in Gangnam.”) Yuta raises a brow. “ _Geuleohji anhseubnikka?_ ” (“Isn’t it?”)

“Oh.” Mark takes a closer look. The pen is white with a small rainbow design stretched around the far tip. He just thought it was a cute design. “I don’t know...” Mark mumbles. _“Nae geos-i aniya._ ” (“It’s not mine.”) If he’d known it was a souvenir, Mark would have told Donghyuck to keep it.

“ _Ne?_ ” Yuta taps his finger on the tip of his chin. Despite his _thoughtful_ visage, Yuta’s eyes never leave Mark’s profile. “ _Eotteohge eod-eoss eo?_ ” (“So how did you get it?”)

It happens again, like it always does. No matter how many times he’s been criticized for it, Mark remains too gullible, too naïve: Distracted by his silly grief over losing his Canadian pens, Mark forgets why he was supposed to be ignoring Yuta’s questions.

“ _Pen-eul ilh-eo beolyeossseubnida, naneun chinguegeseo igeos-eul billyeossda._ ” (“I lost my pens, so I had to borrow this from a friend.”) He spins Donghyuck’s pen between his fingers – a pen that holds no familiarity, no memories – and sighs sadly.

“ _Jinjja?_ ” Yuta snaps his fingers like he’s just come up with some brilliant idea. “ _Yeobun-ui pen-i issseubnida_ ” (“I have some extra pens”), “ _hana jul su iss-eoyo_ ” (“I’ll let you have one”).

“No, no it’s okay-” Too late – the redhead is already swinging back to his seat. He pauses to bend down and murmur something near Sicheng’s ear, and whatever he says breaks the dark-haired boy into a pretty laugh. Yuta lights up at the sound, his smile turns so soft… but it only lasts a second. When he looks up, when he and Mark make eye-contact, Yuta’s lips twist into that familiar smirk. The sparkle in his eyes disappear under the shade of his narrowed lids.

Yuta gracelessly drops onto the chair, pulls close to the desk, and props his elbows up on the desktop to focus on his hands; Mark stops. He silently watches Yuta tug at the elastic.

“ _Naneun hangsang yeobun-ui pen-eul gajigo issseubnida,_ ” (“I always keep extra pens with me”) Yuta murmurs. He fixates on the blue band, stretching it out and up until it releases the writing utensils from its grip. “ _Gyeolgug, naega ilh-eo beolimyeon neomu beongeoloul geos-ibnida..._ ” (“After all, it would be so troublesome if I were to lose one...”)

He looks Mark in the eye, holds out one of the pens in offering, and smiles sweetly. “ _Gwonli_?” (“Don’t you think?”)

Mark doesn’t breathe. He grabs the pen from Yuta’s outstretched hand – coloured brown like coffee with the words _‘Tim Hortons’_ wrapped around in slanted red font.

The intuitive discomfort in his gut has erupted into a painful throbbing; the kind that makes his chest tighten and his head ache and his mind numb. Mark lets out a slow breath, tries to repress the rush of anxiety. Out of habit, without thinking, he lets out an airy “ _Thank you_ ”, and he hates how much it makes Yuta laugh.

Yuta leans his head down onto his desk and cranes for a better view. His obnoxiously scarlet hair falls into his face, but it’s impossible to hide the thrill shining through his pupils. “ _Igeos-eul ilhji masibsio._ ” (“Don’t lose this one.”) It sounds vaguely threatening.

All Mark can do is nod; Yuta’s grin shows his teeth.

The bell rings. The older boy stands up noisily, not bothering to wrap the elastic around the remaining pens as he gathers them with a cheerful hum. He returns to Sicheng’s side, bumps him playfully in the shoulder, they laugh together.

Mark’s eyes close. He takes a deep breath. He makes himself get over it. _Ignore the problem and it’ll go away._

So he stands, squeezes his Korean workbook into his binder behind the yellow notebook from this morning. They’re just pens – who cares? It’s not a big deal. Shake it off. Don’t sweat the small stuff. _Et cetera._

Ten stops by his desk. He nods at Yuta’s retreating figure and teases, “Look at you, our baby made a new friend! _Aw_ ~”

Mark looks at him.

Yangyang clears his throat to get Mark’s attention. Then he rolls his eyes, dramatically dropping his head to follow the motion. “Wow, I think that he is trying to make us feel jealous!” (It was probably meant to be dismissive, it sounds a bit whiny.) “But like, so you know, like, it’s not going to work.” He eyes Mark up and down, lips curled in disdain. “It’s not like you are so special. So you can’t make us jealous.” He crosses his arms and huffs. “Like, ever. _Obviously_.”

Even though Mark knows he’s joking, he winces. Because of course. Right. It’s not like he’s special or anything. _Duh_.

He has a choice: Mark closes his eyes, and asks himself if he wants to make this into a big deal when it isn’t. ‘ _Shake it off,’_ he tells himself. _‘Move on with your day.’_

So Mark looks up at them and he laughs. “Wow, _okaaaay!_ You’re being like, so rude right now, wow.”

“Oh my god.” Yangyang looks scandalized. “No. I am never rude. You cannot attack me, you’re the evil person in this room. Stop being evil.”

His hand clutches around the stupid pen that reminds him of shitty coffee and honey crullers.

-o0o-

The rest of the day is easy. It’s simple. He can tolerate Donghyuck’s pestering, he can tolerate the classroom silences, the end-of-day classroom cleanup finishes quickly. Mark successfully moves on from a minor inconvenience that really _isn’t_ a big deal.

Following the goodbye of the last school bell, Mark spends some quality time with his dear friend Google Maps.

His apartment isn’t _that_ far from school, but like… Okay, so like, Mark knows he’s supposed to turn at a certain corner, but he can never remember which one it is. In Canada, they had this wonderful thing called a ‘school bus’; Mark thinks Korea should make an investment.

He’s almost back to the apartment complex (aka, “home”, but it doesn’t feel like it yet) when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. At first he thinks it might be Donghyuck – they traded contacts at lunch and Mark feels like this makes their friendship official now – but the word ‘Dad’ appears instead.

**From: Dad [5:16 PM]**

_I won’t be home until late again._

_I spoke with one of the neighbours. Her husband works with me and she wants you to come over for dinner with them._

_They have a son your age. They’re very nice._

_Apartment #103_

Mark pauses. It’s not the first time a neighbour has offered to feed him (mostly because Mark has triggered the fire alarm once or twice in the past). But still… it’s always a little weird to sit at a table with someone else’s family, especially when you’ve only been invited out of pity.

He sighs. Mark is usually able to make polite conversation, but this is Korea; he’s barely able to order coffee, much less maintain dinner banter. _This is going to be_ so _awkward_. (But also it’s free food.)

He climbs the stairs to apartment 201 and drops his backpack near the door, pausing to remove his shoes. Mark is used to the empty silence that greets him, but it feels so weird when he has to search for the light switch in his own home… It’s not like it’s his first time experiencing this, but it’s lonely nonetheless.

He’s not sure whether he’s expected to go down to the neighbours right away or if he should wait a bit… Or maybe he just wants to procrastinate. So he pulls out his history textbook, binder, and pen, flops down onto the couch, and begins deciphering today’s chapter with his trusty buddy Google Translate. (Mark has no idea how closely the course follows the textbook, but this is the only hope he has of understanding anything.)

But halfway through the second page, Mark’s stomach grumbles. He wants to ignore it because, seriously, it’s only 5:27pm still, but like… Okay, to be honest, Mark isn’t a history buff. He could care less about the Silla dynasty. The translation app is struggling to coherently describe the monarchy’s reign, and Mark’s frustration is a little sensitive when he gets hangry.

He slams his textbook closed (a little too aggressively) and sighs. It’s going to be uncomfortable no matter how long he procrastinates. And… like… they have free food… so…?

Ah, sue him, Mark is weak-willed. He forces himself off the couch, changes into casual clothes, pauses to consider whether he’s forgetting anything (‘kay but seriously, is he forgetting anything?), and finally locks the door behind him.

It’s a bit cloudy now as he makes his way down the stairs, although it still feels too warm for his liking. Mark’s heard that Korea has really hot summers, and he’s completely dreading it, to be honest. The temperature today was already higher than the hottest day in Vancouver, and he’s been told that it only gets _worse_ from here. No joke, people have actually died (?!) from Korean heatwaves. Oh, and also no one seems to have air conditioning… Mark isn’t sure he’ll survive.

He pauses at the door to apartment 103. He checks his phone again to make sure he isn’t messing up the address (he isn’t), and takes a deep breath. With butterflies in his stomach, he knocks on the door.

He waits approximately five seconds before the door swings open and a small woman appears. She looks him up and down skeptically and asks, “ _Mark-ibnikka_?” (“Are you Mark?”)

“ _Ye_ ,” he affirms, bouncing anxiously. “Uhh… _Mannaseo bangabseubnida_.” (“Nice to meet you.”)

She squints at him for another second or two… then immediately breaks into a wide grin. “Eh _, wae geuleohge neuj-eoss eo?_ ” (“What took you so long?”) She gestures him inside impatiently and Mark nearly stumbles over himself, taken aback by her enthusiasm.

The house is… oh, Mark’s first thought is that it looks _warm_. The kitchen is on the left side with a pot simmering on the stove. On the right side, the dining table is set with three sets of dishware and a stack of napkins in the middle, as if they’ve learned to expect a mess. The house is clean, but you can tell that it’s lived in from the sweater discarded over the back of the sofa and from the family pictures framed on the wall.

Mark can’t help but compare this cozy atmosphere with the apartment he left upstairs – the bareness of his shelves, the spotlessness of unused countertops, the cold tiles under his feet, the quiet that somehow always feels so _loud_ … He wipes his runners into a rug with ‘ _Welcome home_ ’ scripted in cursive, and drops his shoes amongst the company of a unlaced pairs haphazardly thrown aside.

“ _Deo isang seutyuga jeungbalhaess-eul geos-ibnida_!” the woman says, heading to the stove to stir the pot.

“I- Uh…” Mark hesitates awkwardly. “ _Ihaega an dwaeyo…_ ” (“I don’t understand.”)

The woman looks up like she’d forgotten. She takes a moment to think, looks like she’s about to say something, then shakes her head. “We did not want to eat without you,” she says instead. She speaks slowly, taking care to properly pronounce the syllables. “Hurry, sit!”

There are two placemats on the near side of the table and one set on the opposite side. It seems weird to take the near seat because he’d have to sit beside one of the family members, so he chooses the solo spot facing them and watches the woman (he’s still not sure of her name?) bring two bowls to the middle of the table.

Right away Mark stands up again because like, _shit_ , he’s being so rude right now! “Do you need help?” He steps forward, outstretching his hands.

The woman makes a face. “You are a guest.” She glares and pulls the bowl out of his reach. “ _Sit._ ”

Mark doesn’t like feeling served but he doesn’t want to argue either, so he watches her set a bowl of stew in front of him. The thick soup is a bright red colour with pieces of what looks like lettuce mixed in, topped with spring onion. It smells good.

The woman turns to the hall and raises her voice. “Johnny! _Yoegiwa!_ ” (“Come here!”) After a pause, a little more aggressively, “ _Dangsin-eun neomu neuligo eumsig-i chagawojibnida!_ ” It’s too rapid for Mark to understand.

Mark is nervous. His dad said that the family has a son his age. If the son is as enthusiastic as his mother, then that would probably be cool, maybe. But normally, Mark thinks, the kind of optimism this woman has is something that develops with age, right? Young people are rarely this inviting. (Then again, Donghyuck _was_ , so maybe things are different in Korea…?)

A giant walks into the room. Mark feels an anxious flutter in his chest. Oh shit, his dad must have been way off, there’s no way they’re even close in age – this guy looks like a university student! The giant’s mother hands him a bowl of rice and a jug of water, and when he turns towards the table, he and Mark make eye-contact.

He pauses. A strand of brown hair falls into his eyes when he frowns, as he turns back over his shoulder. “ _Eomma, ige saeloun aeni_?” (“Mom, is this the new kid?”) Mark doesn’t hear the what the woman says, but the giant answers, “ _Naneun dangsin-i oneul uimihandaneun geos-eul mollassseubnida._ ” (“I didn’t know that you meant today.”)

Okay, so obviously the guy was informed of Mark’s existence. But like, Mark isn’t sure how much he knows, so he just blurts out his default introduction: “ _Nae ileum-eun Mark-ibnida_. (“My name is Mark.”) _Naneun hangug-eoleul jal moshajiman_ (“I am not very at speaking Korean”), _uliga jal jinaegil balabnida_ (“but I hope we will get along”).” He speeds through it so fast, and he knows the pronunciation is off in certain spots, but he doesn’t really know what else to say.

The giant grimaces and sets the water jug onto the table. “ _Ne mal-i maj-a hangug-eoneun nappeuda_.” (“You’re right, your Korean _is_ bad.”) Mark feels his face heat up and tries to awkwardly laugh it off, but the giant wasn’t joking. “ _Neon eoneu nala-eseo wassni?_ ” (“Where are you from?”)

Mark hesitates and tries to speak more carefully. “ _Canada-eseo isahaessseubnida._ ” (“I moved here from Canada.”)

Mark watches his brown eyes go wide. The guy leans forward, mouth open with disbelief. “Wait, do you speak English?” he says in a perfect, fluent accent.

Mark’s chest flutters for an entirely different reason. “Hold on, _you_ speak English?!” Mark can’t help the grin on his face and starts bouncing in his seat.

The giant nods. “I’m from Chicago.”

“ _For real?!_ ”

“Why would I lie?” It’s sarcastic, but for once the sass is in a language Mark can understand. The guy nods his head up like a greeting. “I’m Johnny.”

“Oh yeah, hey, I’m Mark.” Mark’s not sure if he’s supposed to, like, shake hands with him, or something. By the time he decides that _nah, that’s probably weird,_ his arm is already raised.

He bumbles as he tries to figure out whether to just reach out or to lower his hand again, but like, the longer he takes to decide, the more awkward it gets, and Johnny is just staring.

In the end Mark closes his hand into a fist and offers it in Johnny’s direction. “Uh…” Johnny looks at it like he’s not one-hundred-percent sure anymore what Mark is proposing. He reaches up to slowly bump Mark’s fist. Even after their hands drop, Johnny’s brows are furrowed.

Mark flushes bright red, ‘cause like, holy _fuck_ , that was so fucking embarrassing. God, he _knew_ it was going to be weird but he did it anyway, _why did he do that?_

Thank god Johnny’s mother interrupts by handing him a bowl of rice, and it’s easy for Mark to pretend that he’s _super_ interested in the grains. ‘Cause like, yeah, there’s a lot more to rice than just rice, you know? Like, you gotta figure out the _texture_ , there’s different kinds of stickiness. And, sure it’s white rice, but when you think about it, _how white_ is it actually _?_ There’s tons to focus on when it comes to rice. If Mark is avoiding anyone’s gazes, it’s just a coincidence, that’s all.

But the silence stretches a little too long and _fuck_ , Mark knows what’s coming. Johnny’s mother asks, “ _Canada-e ssal-i eobs-seubnikka?_ ” (“You don’t have rice in Canada?”)

“ _A-Ani…_ ” (“No…”) Oh no wait, _shit!_ Mark’s eyes go huge, that’s totally not what he meant to say! “No, _joesonghabnida!_ _Ye, Canada-e ssal-i issseubnida!_ ” (“Sorry! Yes, Canada has rice.”) “Just… uh… _hangug-eissneun mankeum-eun anibnida._ ” (“Just not as much as there is in Korea.”)

They stare at him. “Ah… _geuleol ttaeneun bab-eul joh-ahagil balabnida._ ” (“In that case, I hope you like rice.”)

Oh god that’s _so fucking embarrassing_. “ _Ye, bab-i joh-ayo_ ,” Mark mumbles. (“Yeah, I like rice.”)

He takes a spoonful of stew as a distraction and quickly changes the topic, “Oh wow, _mas-issda!_ ” (“This is really good!”) Except he actually can’t even taste it because _holy shit_ it’s too hot still so he just burned his tongue, and- Oh _shit_. Yeah wait, hold up, _now_ he tastes it and holy shit it’s _spicy as hell_ , what the fuck?? Mark’s eyes water but he smiles and gives a thumbs up.

“You can speak English, you know,” Johnny says. He keeps a mostly straight face, but the corners of his lips angle up (and Mark has a bad feeling that Johnny sees through his bluff). “Mom lived in the US too. She knows the language.”

“ _Aniya,_ ” Johnny’s mother complains, “ _Yeong-eo sillyeog-i johji anhseubnida…_ ” (“My English is not good…”) Johnny rolls his eyes and it’s as if they’re having a conversation between their glares.

Mark nods, “Ahh, um, thank you _Mrs_ ….” He stops, eyes wide. _Oh shit._ “Um…” Mark still doesn’t even know her name. Fuck, he keeps doing this thing where the words come out before he can think them through- Oh god Mark is the _worst_ at first impressions

Johnny turns. “Mom, you didn’t even introduce yourself?”

The woman huffs. “ _Mullon haess-eoyo_ _!_ _Geuga dochaghajamaja!”_ (“Of course I did! As soon as he got here!”) “J _asin-eul sogaehaji anh-assdamyeon eotteon hoseuteugadoebnikka?_ ” (“What kind of host would I be if I didn’t introduce myself?”)

…Okay but, _no_ , she totally didn’t. Johnny looks over at him with his brows raised in question and Mark send back a tight smile, mouth shut. There’s no way Mark is going to call out this friendly stranger over an introduction.

Johnny nudges his mother. “Well then he didn’t hear you the first time, so be polite.”

His mother pouts and pinches Johnny’s cheek in scolding. When she turns back to Mark, the scowl is replaced by that cheery smile again. “I am Myoryon.” She motions to the food. “Now _eat_.”

It sounds like a command so Mark hurriedly picks a piece of meat (he’s pretty sure it’s pork) from the main plate and carefully brings it to the empty one in front of him. He considers himself lucky that he already knows how to use chopsticks (he’s Asian after all), but as someone accustomed to using cutlery on the daily, Mark can still be a little clumsy. He tries to be careful, and every piece that lands on his plate feels like a small success.

Mark is about to grab from one of the smaller bowls but pauses first to look into it. It contains thin, orangey strips – sort of like carrots but like, these definitely aren’t carrots – sprinkled with sesame seeds. “What’s this?”

“ _Ojingeochae bokkeum_.”

That… doesn’t tell him much. He’s about to bring it to his plate anyway so he can just try it and find out when Johnny translates, “They’re dried squid strips.”

Mark halts, squid poised halfway to its destination. “Oh.” He’s not sure what to do. Does he-… Should he put it back? Is that rude? Or, should he just eat it to be polite…?

His hesitation stretches for too long – _again_ – and Johnny finally asks, “What, you don’t like squid?”

“Eh?” Myoryon straightens to full alert.

“I-I-“ Mark turns red. He nearly drops the strip. “No no, it’s okay! I… ‘Cause like, uh… I… I like… Like, I don’t know, ‘cause like, it’s cool, don’t worry, I-”

“Dude, you don’t have to eat it,” Johnny says flatly. He makes it sound like Mark is _stupid_ or something – but like, Mark swears he _isn’t_ , he just sounds like it right now. Seriously, he’s not actually stupid. For real though.

Mark drops the squid back into its bowl and can’t meet Myoryon’s eyes when she asks, “You do not like seafood?”

He squirms in his chair. “I, uh… Yeah, I mean… Like…” He exhales in defeat. “Nah, I don’t really like seafood that much…” And because he knows Myoryon must have worked hard to prepare the dish he says, “I’m really sorry.”

Johnny snorts and Myoryon immediately smacks his arm. To Mark she says, “Do not be sorry! It was me who did the mistake. Next time we will not have seafood!” (‘Next time?’ That makes Mark a little happy.) She pauses for a moment, thinking. “Do you need me to go make a different food?”

“No!” Mark waves his hands in front of him, shaking his head urgently. “This is great! I like-“ He points down at his plate, “-I like pork!”

The woman watches him skeptically. She leans over and grabs more pieces of pork to drop onto Mark’s plate. “You are a growing boy. You have to eat lots.”

“Oh, uh, thank you.” Mark sets his plate back down with a small smile. It’s embarrassing, but it’s actually kind of nice to be taken care of like this.

For the rest of dinner, Myoryon interrogates him about his food preferences. Mark tries to tell her that he’s not that picky, _for real!_ , but she doesn’t relent until Mark finally admits that he doesn’t like ketchup. This seems to make her happy… probably because there isn’t much ketchup in Korean cuisine.

But the whole time, Johnny stays quiet. He looks over once in a while but concentrates on his dinner, and Mark can’t get a read from his straight face. Is he annoyed? Is he jealous that his mom is giving Mark so much attention? Or maybe he’s just bored?

When they’re done eating, Mark offers to pick up the dishes – it’s the least he can do – but before he has a chance to say thanks and goodbye, Myoryon interrupts.

“Mark, you can spend time with my Johnny.” Myoryon turns around. “Johnny, be nice to him. Go do something fun.”

Mark panics, “N-No, no it’s totally okay-” but the giant just shrugs.

“Sure, whatever.” He walks to the hall and nods his head at Mark, brows raised. “You coming?”

Oh god. Mark’s eyes widen and he surveys his options. So like, Johnny’s super intimidating and could probably snap him in two seconds. _Seriously_. But on the other hand, Myoryon is really nice and… okay, is niceness genetic? Maybe? Mark isn’t great at reading people’s faces… but Johnny doesn’t _look_ angry…? Right?

“Um… sure.”

Johnny disappears into the hallway. Mark follows him to the back of the apartment, to the right-most room, and hovers outside its frame. Johnny lets out a groan as he drops himself onto the edge of his black comforter, tilting his neck to his shoulder until it cracks. He motions towards the TV set up on a wooden console across from his bed. “What do you wanna play?”

“Uh…” Mark is still poised at the doorway, unsure whether he’s allowed to enter because he doesn’t want to be rude and just barge in. But Johnny is already picking up the controllers and setting up the TV… so Mark assumes that’s an invitation? “I dunno.”

“I’ve got COD, FIFA, Mortal Kombat, Dark Souls…?”

Honestly, Mark hasn’t owned that many video games. Back then, he was more likely to crash a friend’s house and use theirs. “Uh… I know Super Smash Bros?”

Johnny pauses, surveying the collection of disks on his shelf. “Yeah, I don’t have that for PS4.” Great, Mark probably sounds like a noob now. “I mean, if you want to do a fighting game, Mortal Kombat is kind of the same thing, just… less cartoon-y.”

“Yeah, sure. Cool.” Mark doesn’t know much about Mortal Kombat other than it being the origin of the _‘Finish him!’_ meme, but it sounds cool, probably. He grabs the other controller and sits on the edge of the bed beside Johnny (but like, with enough space in between for another person so it’s not awkward, ‘kay?).

They’re at the character selection screen and Johnny doesn’t even hesitate before selecting some guy with sunglasses. It’s really the only normal-looking guy in the entire list, which seems kind of boring, but maybe the character is actually super strong or something. Mark wouldn’t know.

He flicks through the different characters, each one weirder than the last. “They look so angry…”

Johnny’s eyebrows furrow. “It’s a fighting game.”

“Yeah, but they look so _angry_.” He pauses on one of the faces and a larger animation appears in the corner. This character is distinctively human despite the blue mask covering the bottom half of his face and he looks less irate than the others. “I like this one.”

“Sub-Zero?” Johnny lets out an indecisive hum. “He’s _okay_ , but like…”

“He looks like me though.”

There’s a silence; Johnny has to check whether the kid is serious.

Maybe Johnny’s skeptical because the character on-screen has a scar on one eye, which Mark obviously lacks. Or maybe it’s because the character is a middle-aged man and Mark is, well, _not_. But Mark insists and gestures at the mask. “You know, it’s like, if I was a power ranger or something, I’d look like that, sort of.” He notices the bewilderment on Johnny’s face. “What? He’s like, Asian-y. Isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but-“ Johnny sighs and shakes his head. “Alright, whatever.” The screen loads, and suddenly their characters are facing each other in an arena. “Do you know how to play?”

“Uh... No.”

“’Kay, basically you just mash all the buttons.” Johnny moves his joystick to the right; his character marches over and punches Mark’s in the face, then in the stomach. “See?”

Mark gasps. “Yo, I wasn’t even ready!”

Johnny’s character lands another punch in the face. “Not my problem.”

So Mark starts spamming buttons. But like, somehow, while Johnny’s character manages to keep landing a bunch of combos (Mark feels bad for this Sub-Zero guy, it looks painful), when Mark tries to do something, _anything_ , he ends up punching empty air. “Stop running away!”

“What? I’m not just going to stand here.” He does move closer to Mark though… only to punch him twice and kick him in the face.

“This isn’t fair!” Mark whines. His character punches in the opposite direction by mistake, so Johnny takes the opportunity to kick him from behind. “You already know how to play!”

Johnny’s character grabs him, swings Mark over his head, and slams him into the floor in a confetti of blood. “So?”

“You have to give me a sec to figure it out!”

Johnny heaves a sigh. His character stands statically in the middle of the arena. “I’m giving you ten seconds.”

“No, fifteen!” Mark runs over and presses the various buttons arbitrarily.

“ _Nine._ ”

He’s not sure how he did it, but somehow Mark’s character expels a flurry of snow and freezes Johnny into a human popsicle. “ _Whoa_ , what the fuck? Yooo did you see that?”

“ _Eight._ ”

“No but _look!_ ” Mark presses the square button a dozen times and punches Johnny out of his iceberg. A few more random button presses and, out of nowhere, Mark’s character swings a frozen axe. “ _What?!_ Did you see that? What the hell, where did that even _come from_? What even…”

_“Six.”_

“Duuude, stop!”

_“Five.”_

Mark tries to figure out how he manifested that random axe, but if he stops to think about it too long, his character loses his momentum and stops moving altogether. _Button-mashing it is_ , then.

_“Four.”_

The axe appears again and swings through Johnny’s body, and while Johnny’s character _does_ fly up into the air with a spurt of blood, Mark is disappointed when he doesn’t split in two. “Seriously though, an axe is probably the shittiest weapon you could use, you know?”

_“Three.”_

“’Cause like, how sharp even _is_ an axe? It’s not like it’s a sword, ‘cause like, it’s bigger, you know? So the sharpness is like… it’s more spread out instead of being in one spot. You know?”

“Uhh… _two?_ ”

“And a sword is literally just used for killing people, but an axe is like… for _trees_. And it’s not even that good ‘cause like, don’t you have to axe a tree fifty times or something before you actually cut it?”

Johnny forgets to do his countdown.

“Seriously though, you don’t have time to axe a dude fifty times. He can just shoot you and you’ll die. Even if it’s like an ice-axe or whatever, can’t you make an ice-grenade instead? Or something? _Seriously_.”

Even though the ten seconds are up, Johnny just stares at the kid. He’s not sure whether he’s in awe or disturbed by… whatever this is supposed to be.

Mark gives a celebratory squeak when he manages to freeze Johnny’s character into an ice cube again. _This must be what success feels like_ , he decides. He turns to brag to the older male but stops when he notices Johnny’s dumbfounded stare.

“Do you always just…” Johnny tries to find the right word. “…talk?”

Mark gets shy. “Uh… I mean… I don’t know… I guess?”

It’s silent except for the TV’s low action music. Mark cowers at the prolonged eye contact and averts his eyes, not sure whether he’s supposed to say something.

Still baffled, Johnny slowly shakes his head. “What the hell do they feed you kids in Canada?”

Without hesitation: “[Kraft Dinner](https://www.kraftwhatscooking.ca/brands/kraft-dinner/product/kraft-dinner-original-macaroni-cheese-00068100058611?categoryid=20160001).”

“…What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **October 10th, 2020; 3:10am**
> 
> In case you were(n’t) wondering, the average high temperature in Vancouver is 22 degrees Celsius, whereas in Seoul it is 30 degrees. I literally only googled this for that one line when Mark said he was dreading summer. Yeah. Just for that _one_ line. 
> 
> Oh, also I’ve never played Mortal Kombat before. But… it seemed like a game that Johnny would play? So my brain insisted on including a detailed description of Moral Kombat and its characters because _why would I make my life easy?_ It took a lot of Googling and YouTube videos to figure it out. (Why are there so many buttons to press?!)
> 
> Yeah… So now that someone’s called this shit out as obsessive-compulsive, I sit back and I’m like… _yeeeeaaaahhh,_ okay, I see your point. Oops. _Well._ Like I said, it is what it is; I'll deal with it. I'll figure out some strategies to control myself for next chapter: If you're willing to bear with me, I'm willing to keep trying my best. 😊
> 
> Oh also- a few of you checked in on me (slash/ told me to hurry the fuck up lol) during my absence. I want to say a quick thanks, because your encouragement was really helpful while I was beating myself up for all this. Thank you to all of you who have read this far, I appreciate you. ❤️
> 
> EDIT: I used to only use twitter to retweet Yuta pics, but I've converted: Now I use it to retweet Yuta pics _AND_ to occasionally talk about writing. Check it out~ [@OMGSaysMyHeart](https://twitter.com/OMGSaysMyHeart)  
> I also got told to make a curious cat, [ so I made a curious cat.](https://curiouscat.qa/OMGSaysMyHeart) Ask me stuff, if you'd like! I'm always down to spill some tea. ;)


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